


Cloudy (Jen) With a Chance of Misha

by Evil_Knitter (Nichneven13)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Cockles, Drunken Flirting, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Jared is not a nice guy, Jensen is a single dad, Kid Fic, M/M, Misha is a teacher, Misha is bad with pick up lines, Past Infidelity, Past Jensen/Jared, Past Relationship(s), RPF, RPS - Freeform, Same-Sex Marriage, Text Flirting, happy endings all around
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5140730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichneven13/pseuds/Evil_Knitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen is a single father. Misha is the slightly unhinged teacher of his seven year old daughter, who is battling with the emotional fallout of her fathers’ divorce. Way less depressing than that sounds, lol.</p><p>FWIW, I think Genevieve is a lovely person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**~Misha~**    
    
“Do you come here often?” Misha asked and then mentally kicked himself. “Don’t answer that. What a hideous line. I apologize.”   
    
The man beside him laughed, making his light eyes dance in amusement. “It’s all right,” he said, the smallest drawl decorating his words. “I don’t come here often. I just moved to town.”   
    
“Oh,” Misha sipped his gin and tonic, trying to choose his next words with care.   
    
“Before you ask,” the man before him said with a grin. “Yes, it hurt like hell when I fell from Heaven.”   
    
He couldn’t help it; really, he couldn’t, so he laughed. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand toward the stranger. “I’m Misha.”   
    
“Jensen,” the still grinning man shook the proffered hand.   
    
“So what brings you to not-so-sunny Seattle?”   
    
“Family,” Jensen said vaguely. He grimaced slightly at the word, but Misha let it slide. Talking about his many family issues in a bar was not high on his Do It list either. “What about you? Are you a native?”   
    
“Born and raised,” Misha confirmed. “What part of the city do you live in? I’m in Capitol Hill.”   
    
“Queen Anne,” Jensen said, raising his beer to his lips. Misha stared at the fullness of those lips as they touched to the bottle.   
    
“I work near Queen Anne, in Meadowbrook,” Misha said at last, trying and failing to look away from Jensen’s mouth. He wanted to get off the small talk train. He’d always found it tedious. He had ventured out to blow off some steam before the school year began on Monday. “Look,” he said, clearing his throat. “I don’t do this often but do you want to get out of here?”   
    
Jensen blinked his surprise, as if he hadn’t realized the possibility that someone would hit on him in a gay bar. It was endearing, Misha decided.   
    
“I,” Jensen started, but was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. Misha raised an eyebrow at the Party in the U.S.A. ringtone. That was way gayer than he’d expected, given the new Seattlite’s rugged exterior. Jensen snatched the phone up and started moving toward the door. “Hey monkey, what’s up?”   
    
Monkey? So the guy had someone at home. Misha sighed and took a long draw of his drink. He hadn’t invested too much time or energy, but he’d been looking forward to seeing what magic those lips could work. He let his eyes roam the darkened room. He  _seriously_  needed to get laid before dealing with the little bastards on Monday—or, he corrected himself—before dealing with the little bastards’  _parents_. God, he hated teaching in a private school, but the money was good. He sighed and tried to not think about school, because thinking about his kids was not helping his libido.   
    
“Hey,” Jensen’s voice came from Misha’s left, making him jump. He let a smile creep across his face, all thoughts of school vanishing. “I’ve got to bail. Family stuff, you know?”   
    
“It’s cool,” Misha said, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I get it.”   
    
“But…” Jensen pulled that distracting lower lip between his teeth and trailed his eyes over Misha like he was cataloging every inch of his skin for future at-home reference. “I definitely  _would_  have.”   
    
And just like that, he was gone. Misha blinked as the man’s words filtered through.  _He would have_. He curled his fingers at the flash of images that information brought—slick skin, stretched mouths, sweat—and found he was crushing a small slip of paper. He unfolded it and saw ten numbers—ten little numbers that were instant gold—and a name. Jensen.   
    
Well, hot damn. Misha pocketed the number and put his empty glass on the bar. Good enough.   
    
    
**~Jensen~**    
   
Jensen navigated the downtown Seattle streets with trepidation. Coming from Los Angeles, he had been looking forward to a relatively light flow of cars at nine o’clock on a Thursday, but from the red taillights blinking at him from every direction, it seemed that expectation was dashed. The journey to the bar had been his first foray out of the house alone, and his first attempt to meet new people. He glanced at the empty backseat out of habit, looking for his constant companion: his seven-year-old daughter, Imogen. He craved adult interaction—and activity. He hadn’t gotten laid since his Big Gay Divorce… god, he missed sex.   
    
He’d been so close to landing the gorgeous man with the dark eyes. He hadn’t even had a chance to make a move—or accept the very welcome invitation to  _dot dot dot_. He loved his daughter with his entire being, but damn, monsters under the bed?  _Monsters_  were cockblocking him. He’d tried to reason with her, but there was no reasoning with a frightened seven year old.   
    
As he pulled up to the Victorian monstrosity he now called home, he took a minute to wallow in the self-pity he generally kept hidden away. Eleven years ago, he’d been young and in love with life and his boyfriend, Jared. Six years ago, still fantastically in love, the pair had taken the next logical step and adopted one-year-old Imogen. Two years ago, during California’s small window of legalized gay marriage, they’d tied the knot. A year ago, still very much in love, Jensen had the rug pulled out from beneath him. Over a decade of his life was washed away with the tsunami of a single phone call.   
    
It wasn’t as if Jensen had never known that Jared found warm bodies to fill his bed when he was out of town on location. It had always suited him to follow President Clinton’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it came to Jared’s extracurricular activities. As long as Jared came home to Jensen—as long as Jared was discreet—Jensen could turn a blind eye.   
    
He never felt threatened by whatever on-set dalliance Jared dabbled in. In fact, Jensen had never once questioned his standing as Jared’s partner. He wasn’t an insecure Hollywood ‘wife’, worried every moment that Jared would trade him in for a younger model. He loved Jared unconditionally and had always bragged reciprocity from Jared.   
    
Until the moment—the very second—that everything came crashing down. The phone call had come just minutes after Jensen had walked Imogen into her classroom in Los Angeles. He’d answered the phone with a cheery hello and launched directly into the news that their little girl had won the starring role in the school’s production of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”   
    
“Jensen,” Jared had said in a voice that made his knees lock. It was the voice Jared had used several years prior to tell him his beloved dog Icarus had been hit by a car.   
    
“Oh god,” he gripped his phone until the hard plastic groaned from the pressure. “Jay, what’s wrong?”   
    
“Jensen, god,” Jared said again, with a sigh that broke across the inevitable international two-second delay. “I don’t know how to… Jensen, there’s someone else. We’re in love.”   
    
Jensen blinked, waiting for the words to make sense. He understood the definition of each word individually –  _there’s_ ,  _someone_ ,  _else_ ,  _I’m_ ,  _in_ , and  _love_ —but he struggled to derive the hidden message they contained. He turned to stare at the front of Imogen’s school where the bell signaling the start of the day had just rung. He could go back inside and ask Ms. Maurer to explain the words, use them in sentences and give him the etymology of each. She could conjugate each verb for him. I met, you me, he/she/it met, we met, they met. I am, you are, he/she/it is, we are, they are. In love.   
    
“Jensen,” Jared said his name again, as if personalizing the trauma would make it easier. As if anything could. “Are you there?”   
    
“I’m here,” Jensen said, the steadiness of his voice surprised him. Inside of his head, words were slamming against the back of his eyes threatening to seep out. “I’m right here where  _you_  left me, Jared, taking care of our daughter and waiting for you to come home.”   
    
“Don’t be like that,” Jared said, but Jensen didn’t know what other way to be.   
    
“How do you want me to  _be_?” Jensen asked. He needed Jared to tell him because in all of their years together, he’d never considered the possibility that Jared would ever actually fall in love with one of his  _toys_. “When are you coming home so we can talk about this?”   
    
“I’m not coming home,” Jared said quickly. There was a voice in the background that was familiar… that should have been less audible.   
    
“After twelve years, this is how you want to do this? Over the damn phone?”   
    
“I,” Jared huffed out breath. Jensen could hear the shuffling of bodies clearer than normal. “Come on, Jensen.”   
    
“Am I on speakerphone?”   
    
“No, of course not,” Jared said, but his voice was suddenly easier to discern. Jensen closed his eyes again, briefly praying for the strength to survive both the heartache and the humiliation. “Look, I’m not coming home. I’ll send my assistant to pick up some of my things.”   
    
“No fucking way,” Jensen snapped. He was dying, he was sure of it, from the pain, but dying had to wait. “You have to come home, to help me explain to Imogen—”  
    
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Jared prevaricated. “You won’t be able to change my mind about this. There are things that—”   
    
“I’m talking about Immy, Jared,” Jensen ground out. He was an Ackles, dammit, and that meant never begging for scraps. If Jared wanted to leave  _him_ , well, he had to let him go, but he would not stand by and allow him leave the little girl who believed Jared hung the damn moon. “She’s your daughter and she misses you.  _She_ at least deserves an explanation in person.”   
    
“Jensen—”   
    
“Who is it?” Jensen cut off his ex—he gulped at the word—before he lost his nerve. Jared breathed heavily into the silence. The sound of his guilt was deafening. “It’s not like I won’t see it in the news soon enough. Tell me the fucker’s name.”   
    
“Genevieve,” Jared blurted. The voice in the background—even more familiar now that Jensen had a name to match it—fluttered nervously. “It’s Gen.”   
    
Jensen nodded to himself. The nanny. How cliché, he thought. Genevieve Cortese had been Imogen’s nanny since the day Jensen and Jared had brought her home. Imogen loved Genevieve like a sister, a best friend, a home-wrecking whore.   
    
“How long?” Jensen managed to force out. How long had he been the nanny and Genevieve been the lady of the house? How long had Jared called home hoping for Genevieve to be the one who answered? How long had they laughed at Jensen’s naïve loyalty and blinding ignorance?   
    
“Not long,” Jared said, which Jensen instantly took as a lie. He waited for the silence to crush his ex into honesty. “Fine, it’s been two years. Dude, she’s pregnant.”   
    
The air inflating Jensen’s lungs disappeared as if he’d been tossed into the vacuum of space without an insular suit. His throat worked spasmodically to draw in a new breath, but there was no oxygen left in his world.   
    
“Say something,” Jared ordered, his words gruff and choppy. That tone— _that tone_ —was Jared trying to hide his tears. That tone pissed Jensen off; how dare  _Jared_ get to be the one to cry. “Jensen, please.”   
    
“Get your ass home  _now_ ,” Jensen growled, the phone shaking against the side of his face. “You have twenty-four hours to get back or—”   
    
Jensen swallowed the rest of his threat, which would have consisted of taking Imogen away forever. He would never do that to his daughter. Regardless of the gutting pain and searing betrayal, he would not subject Imogen to the loss of her father.   
    
“Just get here,” Jensen said. He hit the end button on his phone and tossed it onto the dashboard. He covered his mouth with his palm, desperate to keep the horrified sob building in his chest contained. He had to maintain his composure. If he lost it, he would not be able to regain it before Imogen got out of school in six short hours. After eleven years of being flush with love and happiness, six hours was not long enough to wring all of the grief from his body.   
    
Jensen blinked, pulling himself out of the memory. Looking up, he saw Imogen leaning against her window, staring down at him. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, unsure when he’d clapped it there, and hurried up the walk.   
    
The house was too big, but Jared’s guilt had always been eased by forcing money on Jensen. Not that he didn’t appreciate being able to stay home with Imogen. The little girl needed his undivided attention as she tried to sort through her feelings about the divorce.   
    
“What are you doing back so soon?” the babysitter, Danneel, jumped off the couch in surprise. “Is everything okay?”   
    
“There’s apparently a monster under the bed,” Jensen said with a smile, digging money out of his wallet and handing it off to Danneel. “Thanks for coming over.”   
    
“This is too much,” Danneel said, looking at the bills in her hand. “I was only here for an hour.”   
    
“Don’t worry about it,” Jensen angled toward the stairs, but paused. “How was she? Did she give you a hard time?”   
    
“Nah,” the young red-head forced a bright smile. “She was… fine.”   
    
“Look,” Jensen sighed and approached the girl with apologetic hands out. “She’s having a tough time. Her other father,” he stopped short, not wanting to tell a stranger that Imogen distrusted women since Genevieve had stolen her family away. He coughed and tried again. “She misses her other father. We’re, uh, separated.”   
    
“It’s okay,” Danneel offered a more genuine smile. She picked up her purse and shrugged into her denim jacket. “I’d be happy to sit for Imogen again. Maybe I can take her to the park or to a movie or something.”   
    
“That’d be awesome,” Jensen said louder than he intended. He laughed and ran his hand through his short hair. No sitter had offered to return since Jared had left. Imogen was hell bent on punishing any and all women; especially those in child care services. “She could use a friend.”   
    
“I’d like that,” Danneel said and Jensen thought she might not be a liar. Go figure. “You’ve got my number. Give me a call anytime.”   
    
Jensen stood sentry on the front porch as Danneel got in her car and pulled out of the driveway. As soon as her taillights were out of sight, he turned back and headed up the stairs to deal with monsters.   
    
“Hey, monkey,” he said, sitting on the edge of the canopied bed. The blankets were askew in a way that was unique to Imogen. “How’s the monster situation?”   
    
“Contained,” Imogen said with an impish grin. “I’ve got it trapped in the closet.”   
    
“Good girl,” Jensen leaned down and kissed her delicate brow. Imogen was as pale as a porcelain doll with a mop of curly strawberry blonde hair. The only resemblance she bore Jensen was the splash of freckles across both of their noses. “I’ll take it out back and release it back into the wild.”   
    
“You should just kill it,” Imogen suggested. She only looked like Jared when she creased her brow… like she did when she discussed monsters. “You always let it go, and it always just comes right back.”   
    
Jensen let his daughter tug his hand until he was stretched out on the bed beside her. She dug her cold toes under his hip and rubbed them together. He wrapped her in his arms and dropped another kiss on her forehead while he considered how to respond to his darling daughter ordering a hit on an imaginary monster. He figured her therapist would want to hear about this conversation.   
    
“Daddy?”   
    
“Yeah?”   
    
“Is Papa coming home soon?” She asked in a tiny voice that made Jensen’s skin burn. It was the same question she’d asked him every single night for a year.   
    
“Sorry, Immy,” he said, working hard to control his heartbeat beneath his little girl’s cheek. “Your Papa still lives in Los Angeles with Genevieve and your little brother. Remember?”   
    
“He’s not my brother,” Imogen denied with heat.   
    
“Tyson  _is_  your brother,” Jensen insisted. God, he was tired of defending Jared and his new family. His temper gave a tug on his gut. Damn Jared for leaving him to deal with these doubts. Damn Jared for sending Jensen and Imogen to Seattle like they were his dirty little secrets. “Papa, Gen and Tyson are coming to visit you in a couple of months. They’ll want to see your new room and hear all about your new school. Won’t that be nice?”   
    
“I hate Papa,” Imogen whispered, as if the words were dirty and could do harm. Jensen’s heart lurched. “And Gen.  _And_  Tyson. Tell them not to come. I don’t want to see them ever again.”   
    
“It’s okay to miss him,” Jensen said, squeezing her closer and swallowing past the sudden bile in the back of his throat. “He loves you so much, Immy. He wishes he could be with you every day.”   
    
“Then why isn’t he?” She asked with the brutal bluntness of childhood. Imogen knew no fear when it came to questioning the father who caught all the stray monsters in her room; the father who had never left her, not one day in her whole life. She knew he would never tell her lies, and for the most part, she was right.   
    
There was no answer he could offer to absolve Jared that did not include a lie. He could tell her that he missed her Papa, too. Or say that it had been both of their decision to separate. He could tell her that her fathers still loved each other very much, but that sometimes love wasn’t enough. He  _could_  lie to Imogen, but he refused. He  _refused_  to grant Jared absolution for breaking his daughter’s heart. Instead, he pulled the blankets over both of them and hummed Imogen’s favorite Justin Bieber song until she fell asleep.   
    
After several indulgent minutes of listening to his daughter’s deep, even sleep-breathing, Jensen eased out of the bed. He tucked the blankets around her little body and smoothed her bangs away from her eyes. Back in his own room, he plugged his phone into its charger and noticed a new text message.    
  
_Thanks for the digits. Can I call you tomorrow? Misha_    
    
 

Jensen smirked down at the message. He’d almost—but not quite—forgotten the man with the startling features and graceless pick up lines. Were his eyes blue, maybe brown? It had been impossible to tell in the darkened bar.   
_Sure. Family thing at 10, but anytime after. Jensen_     
    
He changed quickly into his pajamas and huddled beneath the covers. The early fall air was crisper in Seattle than in LA. Jas as the warmth of the blankets seeped into his bones, his phone chirped. He stared at it without moving for a full minute before deciding he  _had_  to know what— _if_ —Misha had responded. 

_:)_

    
    
    
    
The next morning, Jensen pulled up to Seattle Waldorf School with fifteen minutes to spare. Imogen sat in the backseat with a fierce frown pulling her heart-shaped mouth into a pout. It had been a struggle to get her dressed and out the door to attend the school’s Open House. She wanted her old school with her old friends and was angry with her father’s patient but firm insistence that she give Seattle Waldorf a chance.   
    
He consulted the heavy card that had been mailed to their house with Imogen’s class assignment. It was the only second grade class at Seattle Waldorf since the school only allowed three hundred students, ranging from preschool to twelfth grade, at a time to walk their sacred hallways. Mr. Collins, Room 22.   
    
Batting down the urge to drive away and keep Imogen home, Jensen rolled out of their overstated Range Rover. He and Jared had argued extensively over their daughter’s education. In the end, since Jared held the purse strings, he’d gotten his way. Imogen was promptly accepted into Seattle Waldorf after one pointed call from megastar Jared. The principal wasn’t a fool; adding the daughter of Jared Padalecki to the school’s roster would only inflate their status as THE school in Seattle.   
    
“Come on, Immy,” he bit back a sigh and unbuckled his daughter’s seatbelt. “I bet Mr. Collins is awesome. Papa called ahead and asked him to give you a desk next to the window. Wasn’t that nice?”   
    
_And douchey_. But he kept that thought on a tight leash.   
    
Imogen took her father’s hand, but let her feet drag as much as she dare. Jensen didn’t call her on the attitude because he was as nervous as she was. It was the first teacher meet and greet he’d tackled without Jared’s charming confidence. It was easy with Jared by his side; they hadn’t needed to say ‘Imogen has two daddies’ because they’d obviously been a family. But now? How did he tell a stranger that his kid had two daddies who were divorced—with one daddy shacking up with the nanny and their heterosexually-induced spawn while the other was banished to the wilds of Washington with nothing but a shiny new car, a fat bank account and a swollen house?  _Fuck_ , Jensen thought not for the first time since waking up.   
    
His phone chirped and he instantly touched the screen, curious. Misha, the display told him. He opened the message as he tugged Imogen across the parking lot.   
    
_I have a work thing at 10. Can’t wait to call. You are in my head, causing trauma_.   
    
_We talked for 30 seconds_ , Jensen typed one-handed.  _What trauma?_    
    
In less time than Jensen thought possible, he had Misha’s reply:  _Lips. You have lips. I’ll admit to being shallow._    
    
Jensen laughed in surprise and self-consciously sucked his lower lip between his teeth.  _Funny_ , he replied.  _Don’t you have lips too? I’m suffering no trauma. We should remedy that at once._    
    
“What are you laughing at?” Imogen asked as they climbed the last stair to the school. She paused and nervously twisted a strand of hair around a finger.   
    
“Nothing, monkey,” Jensen turned the phone off and slid it into his pocket, completely focused on his daughter once again. He tried and failed to beat down the flash of guilt he felt for engaging in flirty texts while his daughter clearly needed him. He picked up a brightly colored map in the lobby. “Room 22 is this way. Let’s go.”   
    
He oohed and aahed over the artwork hanging on the walls, pointing out a Jonas Brothers library poster that made Imogen blush and slap at her father’s hand. Children both younger and older than Imogen wandered the halls, but the little girl kept her eyes downcast. Room 22 stood like a beacon at the end of the main hall. Whimsical music poured out of the open door, mingled with gales of laughter. Finally interested in her surroundings, Imogen pulled Jensen toward the sound while simultaneously burrowing further into his side.   
    
“Welcome to Room 22!” A happy voice boomed before Imogen and Jensen had wrestled their way through the rainbow-inspired beads that hung in the open doorway. “I’m Mr. Collins and you are— _oh my god!_ ”   
    
Jensen froze, eyes locked on the man standing beside a large cherry wood desk in a jester’s cap and a gingham apron. Misha.   
    
“Daddy look!” Imogen released Jensen’s hand to rush to the terrarium on the desk at Misha’s side. “ _Turtles_. Come here!”   
    
Jensen wanted to look at the turtles. More than anything in the world, he wanted to look at those damn turtles. He wanted to tear his eyes away from Misha’s horrified expression, but his eyes refused to cooperate. It was only after Misha turned his head to properly greet Imogen that he snapped out of his statue-like posture. He shook himself, thankful that at least one of them was pretending to be an adult and consider their surroundings.   
    
“Ah yes,” Misha said as he crouched down to Imogen’s level. “These are my turtles. That one is Drydraluxlaloud, but you can call him Lux. The other one is Bonnie Brae the Second. As for me, I’m Mr. Collins.”   
    
Imogen barely managed a how-do-you-do before she turned her eyes to the turtles once again. Jensen couldn’t help but inch closer, smiling at his daughter’s joy. It’d been too long since he’d seen that look.   
    
“Do you want to touch Bonnie’s shell?” Misha asked, standing up to reach inside the terrarium.   
    
“Yes, please,” she said breathlessly. She turned her face up to Jensen, eyes twinkling with exuberant curiosity. “May I?”   
    
Jensen nodded as Misha carefully lifted the turtle, who stroked its little forelegs through imaginary water. Several other children gathered around their teacher, eager to be included.   
    
“Does anyone know what kind of animal turtles are?” Misha asked the assemblage. The kids stared in rapt attention as Misha cradled the turtle in his palms. School had not officially begun, so the kids did not bother to respond. “Turtles are reptiles, just like snakes and lizards.”   
    
“Eeew,” the girls complained, while the boys made appreciative sounds.   
    
“We’re going to learn all about reptiles this year,” Misha grinned at his students as if he was just as excited at the prospect as the other boys in the room. Jensen felt himself falling under the same spell the teacher had cast on the kids. He glanced at Imogen, but her eyes were trained on Misha. He’d never seen anyone earn the immediate worship of his daughter. “ _And_ ,” Misha continued. “We’re going to learn about one other kind of reptiles: Dinosaurs!”   
    
“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, because really, dinosaurs are cool.   
    
“Daddy,” Imogen whispered urgently. “Come touch Bonnie’s shell. It’s  _so cool_.”   
    
“Nah,” Jensen said with a shake of his head, absently taking a step back. “I’ll just watch.”   
    
“Come on, Daddy,” Misha said, sliding his gaze to Jensen’s face. His eyes were the purest shade of blue Jensen had ever seen. “Don’t you want to touch? No reason to be afraid.”   
    
“I’m not afraid of the turtle,” Jensen muttered as he drew close and held out his hand. Misha grabbed the extended hand and guided Jensen’s index finger to the back of Bonnie’s scaly shell. Jensen’s collar felt two sizes too small where it clung to the base of his flushed neck.   
    
“Gently,” Misha cautioned, his deep voice pitching lower, cutting through the din of childish chatter with ease. “One finger is a good way to start.”   
    
The flush crawled up Jensen’s face, scalding his skin and leaving him marked. He eased his hand away and chanced a look at the other man’s face. He hadn’t noticed the little lines around his wide-set eyes the night before. He openly stared at the man he’d almost gone home with and knew a moment of regret—and relief. The meeting could have been ten more kinds of awkward if they’d painted each other white the night before.   
    
“Are you okay?” Imogen asked, jarring Jensen to his core. He was definitely not winning any Father of the Year awards with his inattentiveness.   
    
“No worries, Immy,” he said, ruffling her hair. She was the one person for whom he would sacrifice anything for—mind-blowing sex (for he was sure it would be) included. He slid his hand down to Imogen’s shoulder to ground him and offered Misha a polite and detached smile. “I’m Jensen Ackles and this is my daughter Imogen Ackles-Padalecki.”   
    
“Misha Collins,” the teacher responded automatically, rearranging his expression from flirtatious to professional. “Nice to meet you both. Imogen, your desk is by the window. Why don’t you see if you can find it?”   
    
Imogen darted off, pausing long enough to cast her father one last look as if she was afraid he would disappear. Jensen’s heart clenched at the sight. He’d taken his little girl to a therapist immediately after Jared left, but their move to Seattle had disrupted her recovery. She hated losing sight of her father, which promised to be difficult with school starting in a handful of days.   
    
“As you can see,” Misha said in a voice colored with derision. “I assigned Imogen a window seat as your husband requested. I generally do not accept seating requests, but the principal was adamant I do anything necessary to make Imogen’s time with us comfortable.”   
    
“Okay, look,” Jensen said, dismissing the seating arrangement for a moment. “Obviously, you can’t call me later.”   
    
“Obviously,” Misha agreed at once. “I don’t enable cheaters. I talked to your husband last week—”   
    
“I’m not a cheater,” Jensen said with a grimace. “And he’s not my husband. Not anymore. Things have been… difficult… for Immy. I wanted to talk to you, uh,” his cheeks stained and his tongue tripped. “I mean, I wanted to talk to Imogen’s  _teacher_  about the situation…”   
    
He trailed off, distracted by a dark curl lying against the other man’s forehead.   
    
“Jensen?”   
    
“Right, sorry,” Jensen pulled at the fabric of his shirt, wondering when the shirt had become too small. Maybe he shrank it in the last wash. “Imogen is taking the split poorly. She’s got some anxiety issues now and is in therapy. The window thing, that’s because she is claustrophobic now. She never was before, but. Anyway, thank you for letting her have a window seat. I’m sorry if Jared bullied you into it instead of explaining. Things have been… well. It doesn’t matter.”   
    
He exhaled sharply and rubbed his palm against his mouth. He hadn’t said that many adult-sounding words at once in months.   
    
“I’m sorry,” Misha said softly, pressing his own palm to Jensen’s arm. “I didn’t realize. Of course Imogen should have what she needs. I will pay close attention to her; make sure she is involved and included in class. No need to worry while she’s here, Jensen. I’ve got her.”   
    
“I didn’t want private school,” Jensen said for no reason. “I wanted to keep her home. She needs so much attention.”   
    
“She’ll be fine,” Misha said firmly, giving his arm a squeeze. “We will work together to make sure of it. Okay?”   
    
Jensen nodded and tilted his head down to blink at the fingers wrapped around his forearm. He could feel the five-striped heat straight through his blazer. It was the first touch he’d experienced—outside of Imogen’s—since Jared had kissed him farewell that last time, before Jensen had known his world was scheduled to implode. And he didn’t even remember that kiss; he hadn’t known he  _should_  have committed it to memory.   
    
“Go on,” Misha said, gesturing with his head to Imogen where she chatted with a classmate. He tugged Jensen’s arm in the same direction to snap him out of his silence.   
    
Before he could react, Misha had gone, moved on to the next parent waiting to demand special treatment for their kid. Jensen made it to Imogen’s desk, where she’d taken to enthusiastically coloring on a sheet of paper before her. He leaned down to see her work, but his eyes could do nothing but track Misha’s movements around the room. The man moved with a sure-footed grace that would make dancers want to study him and any sexual being alive want to fuck him.   
    
“Daddy,” Imogen interrupted his insane stalking and inappropriate thoughts with a hand on his reddened cheek. “You have a fever.”   
    
“I’m fine, monkey,” he said, turning his head to kiss Imogen’s palm. He silently cursed his carelessness for the ninth time since he’d entered Room 22. He was in his daughter’s classroom; Misha was her  _teacher_. With a new resolve, he pushed his attraction to the depths of his stomach, letting the acids there eat it away. He would focus everything on Imogen; she needed him a hell of a lot more than he needed to get off. “What are you drawing?”   
    
“Turtles,” she said, holding the paper up to show two shaky oval shapes with giant eyes and smiles. “Can I send it to Papa? He likes turtles.”   
    
“He sure does,” Jensen agreed, although he knew Jared was scared of snakes and other reptiles by extension. “We can stop by the post office on the way home. How about that?”   
    
Misha’s raucous laughter filled the room and Jensen’s eyes immediately found the source of the sound. The teacher and hapless pick-up artist juggled three apples for a new contingent of students and parents. His mouth was open in a carefree smile, his eyes tracking the apples intently.   
    
_Damn_ , Jensen thought.  _This is going to be a long year._    
    
**   
    
**~Misha~**    
   
After the last kid had gone, Misha crumpled into his desk chair, tossing his silly hat to the side. He could barely remember any of the children’s names—save one. He castigated himself for his failure. It had always been a mark of pride that he knew his kids’ names before the first day of school. This would be the first year in his long career that he could not boast to that accomplishment in the teachers’ lounge.   
    
He scrounged through the Student Information Sheets the parents had filled out after his brief presentation on the syllabus and learning objectives for the year. He didn’t give a rat’s ass which spoiled brat had a peanut allergy or wore diapers at night; he was after one sheet in particular. Imogen Sofia Ackles-Padalecki. Age: 7. The word mother had been crossed out and replaced with “Father #1”: Jensen Ross Ackles. Age: 34. Occupation: None. Address: 1516 7th Avenue West. Phone: Misha recognized it at once.   
    
Further down the page was the actual father blank, beside which Jensen had added a #2. Jared Tristan Padalecki. Age: 30. Occupation: Actor. Misha paused; he’d known that before he’d met Imogen or Jensen. Jared Padalecki’s name had been tossed around at every meeting the principal had called since the start of summer. Of course Misha had seen the blockbuster movies that seemed to pop up every July 4th weekend. He’d had no real opinion of the man until now.  _Now_  he considered Jared Padalecki a pompous tool, but Misha allowed that his judgment might be impaired by a pair of freckled faces.   
    
The information kept coming. Imogen had no mother and no allergies, but was on medication to help control her frequent panic attacks and soothe her post-traumatic depression. Jensen was willing to volunteer at every school function, regardless of how mundane or demeaning his role. Had he really volunteered to be dunked in the Homecoming Festival’s popular Dunk-a-Dork booth (or whatever it was called)? He was also available to act as Teacher-Parent Liaison (Room Mom), citing his experience in four previous classrooms. His handwriting exuded confidence with boldly crossed Ts and large swirling Ys in the hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the page.   
    
“Imogen is my life,” Jensen had written, and Misha noted that the pen had dug into the paper fiercely at that. “I will do nothing to jeopardize her happiness or education. I hope I can count on your continued assistance in that regard.”   
    
Misha read the words three times in quick succession. The message was clear: back off. With a sigh, he retrieved his phone from his top desk drawer and dialed his closest friend—and fellow teacher—Vicki.   
    
“’Sup, Teach?” Vicki said instead of hello.   
    
“Remind me,” Misha said, hoping for casual curiosity. “What’s the Seattle Waldorf policy on dating the parent of a student?”   
    
“Why, Mr. Collins,” Vicki laughed. “Are you after a little P? Or T and A?”   
    
“Ha, like PTA,” Misha huffed instead of laughing, which was abnormal, considering how much he’d actually enjoyed the joke. “So… the policy is…?”   
    
“There is no official policy,” Vicki said into her phone even as she crossed the threshold into Room 22, grinning at her friend. “You can’t date  _students_ , which is gross anyway, but the policy is mum on dating parents.”   
    
“Interesting.”   
    
“Isn’t it though?” Vicki sat on the edge of Misha’s desk and looked at him with presumptuous expectation. “This is where you divulge details, Mish.”   
    
“There are no details,” he shrugged. “Just a hot single dad. He volunteered to be Room Mom.”   
    
“You’ll be working closely with him, then,” Vicki said with a wicked nod that reminded Misha of his friend’s area of expertise: human sexuality. How she ever landed a job teaching third grade, he’d never know. He hypothesized it was either an epic lie on her resume, or one hell of a blowjob. Either way, Vicki had turned out to be a fantastic teacher. “Does he seem interested?”   
    
“He’s hyper focused on his daughter,” he said without a bit of the disgust he normally used to mock parents who swore Little Timmy was the sun in their planetary solar system, but never actually  _did_  anything with the kid. “He had a bad break up and the kid’s got some emotional problems. She looks at him like he was Buddha come to Earth.”   
    
“All little girls worship their fathers and hate their mothers.”   
    
“Thanks, Freud,” Misha rolled his eyes. “But Imogen has two fathers and zero mothers. But that’s not the point. The point is can I ask him out?”   
    
“Yes,” Vicki nodded without hesitation. “Definitely. Just don’t screw him in the cafeteria. They fired the last teacher that did that.”   
    
“So, we can screw in the gym?” Misha asked, training his features into a mask of solemnity. “Just so I’m clear on the rules.”   
    
“I’m off,” Vicki laughed and jumped off the desk. “I’ve got to finish decorating my Welcome Board. I have ten little flowers to cut out. Want to help?”   
    
“I’ll be down later,” he said although he could make a list of ninety-nine things he’d rather be doing. He had no intention of helping her, and he was sure she knew it. “I have to finish up a few things here first.”   
    
After Vicki left, Misha picked up his phone once again. He’d promised he wouldn’t call Jensen, but he hadn’t said anything about not texting him.   
    
_So that was awkward. Still want to talk._  
    
He tapped his fingers as he waited for a reply. With a blip, it appeared in under a minute.   
    
_No,_ Jensen said. _You’re Im’s teacher._    
    
_Did you know it’s not, in fact, against the rules for us to date?_    
    
_Are you asking me out?_ Was Jensen’s response.   
    
_I am if you’re saying yes,_  Misha tapped out with a smirk tugging on his lips.   
    
_No,_ Jensen sent back and nothing else, no matter how long Misha waited.   
    
He dropped the phone and flicked it across the desk in irritation. He sure as hell wasn’t going to beg. Even if there had been a spark of attraction—lust, whichever—they hadn’t even had a conversation that didn’t revolve around Seattle neighborhoods or Jensen’s seven-year-old. He could forget easily enough.   
    
Except.   
    
He picked up his phone again.  _Fair enough. Friends? You ARE the new Room Mom after all._    
    
It took five full minutes for Jensen’s reply to come:  _Just friends. Don’t call me Room Mom._    
    
Misha smirked even though no one was around to appreciate it. Feeling a sudden burst of goodwill, he got to his feet and headed toward Vicki’s classroom around the corner. Maybe he would convince her to make tissue paper flowers instead of boring cutouts.   
  


	2. Chapter 2

**~Jensen~**

“We don’t have the budget for a clown,” Jensen said with a weary shake of his head. It was the tenth committee meeting about the Holiday Festival, and he was frustrated. The women on the committee—he was of course the only father involved—had ideas much bigger than their already sizeable budget could support. “We’re already over budget by a thousand dollars. A clown would add another five hundred, easy.”

“But a Holiday Festival without balloon animals and face painting isn’t worth having,” Mrs. Shuttleworth said with a sniff. “It just isn’t right.”

 “That’s what you said about the horse drawn carriage and the real-beard Santa,” Jensen reminded her. “We don’t have the—”

 “If you say ‘budget’ one more time,” Mrs. Dodd chimed in, her nose pinking up in her ire. “I’ll scratch your eyes out. St. Bridget’s is having a clown.”

 “Good for St. Bridget’s,” Jensen said, working hard to keep his temper in check. “But  _we_  do. Not. Have. The.  _Budget_  for a damn clown.”

 “Greetings, ladies,” Misha cooed as he swept into the room, twenty minutes late, as per his usual. Jensen was quick to take in his slim-fit trousers, sweater vest and red tie. “That’s clucking in the hen house?”

 “Do you even know how offensive that is?” Jensen snapped even as the women tittered in flirtatious amusement. “The meeting started at eleven o’clock. Where have you been?”

 “Shaping the minds of our future,” Misha shot back, wedging a chair between Jensen and Mrs. Dodd, despite the available space further down the table. “So, catch me up. What did I miss?”

 “We need a clown!” Mrs. Shuttleworth cried.

 “There’s no money for a clown,” Jensen responded, throwing his pen across the table and leaping to his feet. He wondered what an aneurysm felt like, because he was seriously worried about the pounding vein in his temple. “Unless you want to dress a homeless guy in floppy red shoes and give him a can of paint from Home Depot, there’s  _no budget for a clown_!”

 “Well, I never,” Mrs. Dodd said, her eyes glittering despite the shocked look she adopted.

 “Perhaps I can offer a solution,” Misha said, reaching up to touch the tips of his fingers to Jensen’s wrist. “Please, Jensen, have a seat.”

 “Fine, what is this fantastic idea that the brilliant Misha Collins has conjured?” Jensen flung himself into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He knew he was acting like a grumpy child, but really, the women were impossible to please.

 “Aw, he thinks I’m brilliant,” Misha teased, sharing a conspiring look with the Shuttleworth and Dodd bitches. “So sweet.”

 “Misha,” Jensen ground out. He was used to the other man’s ostentatious flirting, but he knew it didn’t mean anything when they were in front of an audience. Misha flirted in that way with  _everyone_. No, it was the more intimate things he said when they were alone, or could not be overheard that made Jensen crawl to the very edge of his resolve.

 “I can be the clown for the bargain-basement price of  _free_.”

 “Excuse me?”

 “I went to Clown College—”

 “Of course you did,” Jensen said with a sigh. He closed his eyes and took a moment to add ‘attended Clown College’ to the list of reasons he could never date Misha.

 “My face paintings are works of art,” Misha continued as if Jensen hadn’t spoken at all. “And my balloon animals are considered National treasures.”

 “Oh, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Dodds flapped her hands in front of teary eyes. “I should have known you would have the perfect solution. And Clown College? Aren’t you just the most clever man ever?”

 Jensen snorted.

 “You doubt my skills, Jensen?” Misha asked, leveling him with the full weight of his ridiculous eyes and gravelly voice. “Do you need a demonstration?”

 Jensen blushed straight down to his toes. He could feel a fine sheen of sweat break out between his shoulder blades. See,  _that_  was the flirting that was dangerous to Jensen’s state of mind. The subtle, double entendres that floated over the heads of Seattlite housewives. He coughed and feigned choking on a non-existent crumb to cover the color of his face.

 “Here, let me,” Misha reached into his pants pocket and slowly pulled out three long strips of rubber. Jensen watched the movement steadily, never knowing what to expect from the infuriating man. “Sit back while I blow these. Up. I’ll show you what I can do.”

 Mrs. Dodd and Mrs. Shuttleworth clapped their hands and chattered happily about having such a talented and capable teacher at Seattle Waldorf. But Jensen, he was soldered to his chair, trapped watching Misha stick the rubber between his lips at close range. When Misha’s tongue flicked against the furled rim of the rubber to draw it into his mouth—oh, it was a balloon, of course he happened to have balloons in his pocket—Jensen exhaled sharply and curled his fingers around the agenda in front of him.

 The balloon blew out, sticking obscenely from Misha’s mouth in an inescapable phallic shape. Jensen wanted to call foul. No fair tormenting him when he could not walk away without stirring the gossip mongering pot. All he could do was stay there and watch as Misha blew and twisted the three balloons into a long-stemmed flower with an adorable ladybug (complete with sharpie spots colored on) perched on its side. With a quirk of his eyebrows, Misha inclined his head in a mockery of a bow and presented the flower to Jensen.

 “That’s fantastic!” Mrs. Shuttleworth exclaimed, reaching out to pluck the flower away from Jensen. She turned to Mrs. Dodd, who joined her in examining the balloons from several different angles. “You’ve got the job!”

 Jensen forced himself to swallow and release the crumpled paper in his hands. His eyes tracked the flower being manhandled by Macbeth’s witches and wished it would pop.

 “I can do it again,” Misha said softly, leaning against Jensen’s shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be a one time thing.”

 “Knock it off,” he hissed, pushing the teacher away from him.

 “Imogen is having a rough day,” Misha said in same soft voice. Jensen flinched at the news and found himself scooting closer to the man holding essential information about his child. “We are working on our family unit in Social Studies. The kids are creating family trees.”

 “Dammit, Misha,” Jensen groaned, slapping his palm to his forehead. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

 “I am sorry about that,” Misha said. “I should have called you. But honestly, I thought she would be okay. She has two parents and two sets of grandparents, right?”

 “Yes,” Jensen said, casting a look at the room’s other two occupants. They were hunched over the layout of the Holiday Festival, paying the two men no attention. “But we haven’t heard from Jared in two weeks now. He’s on location in Cambodia, so the phone connection is unreliable at the best of times.”

 “I see,” Misha sucked his lower lip into his mouth and slid it between his teeth absently. “You said he was coming to visit her soon, right? For the holidays?”

 “Yeah,” Jensen said, rubbing his eyes and sitting upright again. “Bringing the whole family along, too. Imogen is not happy about that. I’ve had to increase her therapy to twice a week since she found out. She was looking forward to having Jared all to herself.”

 “Let me help, Jen,” Misha said, laying a hand on the other man’s forearm. Jensen startled at the nickname. No one had called him Jen since he’d been potty trained.

 “How?” he asked instead of denying the offer. He turned his head to look at Misha, too listless to pull away from the hand trapping his arm.

 “I’ll think of something,” the teacher said with a squeeze.

 “I’m so tired, Misha,” Jensen muttered. The words fell out of his mouth before he could dam them up with muddy betrayal and sharp brambles of lies. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I try and I try, but she’s getting worse. And Jared is so wrapped up in his work—in his new family—to realize she is suffering.”

 “Let’s get out of here,” Misha said abruptly, jumping to his feet and pulling Jensen along. “Ladies,” he said over his shoulder as they walked out. “I simply  _must_ borrow Jensen to look at a faulty light in my classroom. Please carry on without us, but do mind the budget.”

 Misha steered Jensen down the hall in the opposite direction of his classroom and directly into the teachers’ lounge. They were alone in the room, which smelled of garlic and coffee.

 “Sorry, I had to get you out of there,” he said after he’d locked the door behind them. He motioned for Jensen to sit in one of the many chairs scattered around the room. “I didn’t want the hounds to descend.”

 “Thanks, I’m okay,” Jensen said, trying to laugh off his temporary weakness. Imogen had a med check after school. And he needed to swing by the grocery store for milk. He needed to call a chimney sweep to clear the flue. There was too much to do for him to pander to his self-pity. “Dealing with those women make me insane. At least in LA I got to deal with the nannies instead of the god awful mothers.”

 “It’s understandable,” Misha said. “For you to be tired, I mean. You are a single parent of an emotionally labile child. When was the last time you had fun?”

 “Do PTA meetings count?”

 “No.”

 “Ah, well then,” Jensen’s forehead wrinkled in thought. A week ago, he’d taken Imogen to the Space Needle for a bird’s eye view of their new city, but she’d had a panic attack and added a fear of heights to her ever-expanding list of phobias. Before that, he’d tried a whale-watching trip to Orca Island. She’d really liked that, but then inexplicably cried all the way home. He’d tried, God help him, he’d tried everything he could to help his little girl, but he failed at every turn. “I can’t remember.”

 “How long since you’ve had a night out with friends?” Misha asked, pocketing his hands and rocking back onto his heels.

 “Los Angeles,” Jensen admitted, flushing under the weight of his shame. “I don’t have friends here.”

 “You have me,” Misha reminded him. They had shared countless hours on the phone together, but somehow, they never managed to spend time together outside of school.

 “You don’t count,” Jensen countered. “You’re Imogen’s teacher.”

 “I’m her teacher  _and_  your friend. Why do you have such a hard time accepting that?”

 “Because—” Jensen swallowed down desperate words, but they choked him as they clung to the walls of his throat, screaming for release. He turned his back on the infuriatingly persistent man and stared at the row of floral teacups lined up with military precision over the microwave.

 “Because why?”

 “Because I  _want_ you,” Jensen rasped, letting the words go, scraping his throat with their barbs. His hand came up unbidden, clamping across his lower jaw for a brief moment, but Misha’s hand was there, tugging it away again.

 “Don’t do that, Jen.”

 “Dammit,” Jensen growled and whirled around to face his tormentor. His legs propelled him forward without warning, landing him inside the other man’s bubble of air and space, where he was caught and cradled by two strong hands. The soft wool of Misha’s sweater vest tickled his cheek and moved rhythmically beneath his palms. “Don’t call me that.  _Don’t_.”

 “Why not?” Misha murmured, tilting his head to speak directly into Jensen’s ear. He trailed his fingers up Jensen’s back and over his shoulders, where they slid down his chest like a raft down a waterfall. “ _Jen_.”

 The touch was light, but the intention was firm. Until that day it had been  _months_  since anyone but Imogen had laid hands on him. Except, of course, Misha who asked for neither permission nor forgiveness for constantly trouncing the physical boundaries of a parent-teacher relationship. His hands moved over Jensen’s torso with confident possessiveness, and Jensen pressed into it.

 When Jensen turned his head, he knew he’d given up the first and last of his defenses. Misha’s eyes had darkened into two glittering pieces of coal. He drew in a sharp breath at Misha’s dilated pupils, bizarrely recalling a documentary about love on The Discovery Channel. Something about dilated pupils being a sign of sexual attraction and love.

 “Attention please,” the crackly voice of the office secretary came over the intercom. Jensen ignored it in favor of narrowing the distance between them. He licked his lips as he ducked his head the smallest degree to line his mouth up with the man who had tormented his thoughts for weeks. He was about to cross a line, but he couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t. “Mr. Ackles, please report to the Clinic immediately.”

 In the space of a blink, Jensen had wrenched away from Misha and tore from the room, sprinting down the hall with his head bent for speed. Worst case scenarios reported by the dozens, saluting his imagination as they marched past and dug foxholes behind his eyes. Imogen with internal bleeding following a playground fall. Imogen developing a latent bee allergy and going into anaphylactic shock. Imogen kidnapped. Imogen  _dead_.

 “No, no, no,” he chanted as he ran toward the nurse’s office. He’d stopped by earlier that day, on his way to the committee meeting, to drop off several boxes of Camp Rock Band-Aids, just because he’d found them on sale. He rounded the corner and ran into a familiar, solid wall of sinew.  _Jared_. He didn’t pause to consider his ex’s sudden appearance, but instead shoved Jared to the side to gain entry to the clinic. “Immy! What happened?”

 “She fainted,” Mrs. Valley said from her perch on the tissue-paper covered cot where Imogen’s still form laid. The nurse held a stethoscope to Imogen’s chest and held up a finger for silence.

 He felt his knees connect with the hardwood floor, but there was no pain, only panic. He picked up his daughter’s limp hand and pressed it to his lips, prayers tripping around his head and out his mouth.

 “Jen,” Misha squeezed through the door and folded into a kneel at Jensen’s side, his fingers sweeping a strand of hair off Imogen’s cheek. “What happened?”

 “She fainted,” Jensen managed, comforted by Misha’s presence. Guilt burned a hole into his stomach; he should have been in the committee room, directly across the hall from the clinic. He should have been there the moment Imogen was brought in instead of giving in to his selfish desires. Without turning to face Jared, he asked: “What are  _you_  doing here?”

 “Daddy?” Imogen’s voice barely cut through the tense silence permeating the room. “Where’s Papa?”

 “I’m here,” the voice he knew as well as his own made Jensen flinch. Across the cot, Jared slowly lowered himself and took Imogen’s free hand. His eyes briefly met Jensen’s before skittering to Misha and finally falling back to his daughter’s. “Hey there, monkey. You gave us a scare.”

 “You’re really here!” she squealed and shook her hand free from Jensen’s grasp in order to throw her arms around her other father’s neck. She buried her face in his neck and shuddered with overwhelming emotion. “Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave,  _please_  don’t leave me, Papa.”

 Jensen sat back on his heels, his hands falling to his thighs, the force of adrenaline rushing out of his pores left him empty and cold. His stomach twitched painfully and he considered throwing up, but in the end, he just sat there and watched his daughter beg and cling. Did he smell the same? Had he lost weight or gained muscle? Was he still cold from the air outside? Did she even remember how it felt to be held in those strong arms?

 Jensen remembered. He shook his head and cringed against the unwanted memory.

 He didn’t want to be hurt that Imogen had pushed him away for Jared’s brand of comfort. When they had been together as a family, he wouldn’t have thought twice about Imogen’s choice. Circumstances had changed drastically though, so he was hurt. He had sacrificed everything, but Jared was the hero in Imogen’s eyes. Yeah, it hurt pretty fucking bad.

 Beside him, Misha reached out and covered Jensen’s hand with one of his own before leaning close to whisper words of support. He didn’t really understand them, but he allowed the soothing sound to keep his hysteria at bay.

 “I’m going to stay for a while,” Jared was saying to Imogen. He tugged at one of the curls framing her face and watched it bounce back into place. “At least until Christmas.”

 “You’re staying for Christmas?” Imogen and Jensen both said; hers was asked in breathless awe, while his was filled with suspicious accusation.

 “Yeah, if that’s okay,” Jared said, once again twisting to look at Jensen. “Angelina broke her ankle, so filming is on hold for a couple of months.”

 “Genevieve?” Jensen mouthed, casting an anxious look at the back of Imogen’s head. They had had ten solid years to perfect their lip-reading skills before they’d separated, and Jensen hoped they’d retained the skill.

 “LA,” Jared mouthed back. “Talk later.”

 “Will you stay at home?” Imogen asked hopefully. “You can tuck me in at night. And make me banana pudding!”

 “I’ll be in Seattle, Immy,” Jared maneuvered until he was sitting on the cot, pulling their daughter into his lap. His back was toward Jensen, so all the kneeling pair on the floor could see of Imogen were her small feet, encased in light-up Tinker Bell tennis shoes. “But I don’t think staying with you—”

 “It’s fine,” Jensen said quickly, desperate to cut Jared off and forestall Imogen’s heartbreak. He tugged his hand away from the weight of Misha’s and absently rubbed at his mouth. “There’s plenty of room.”

 “Jen,” Misha said lowly. “Is that really a good idea?”

 He swung his head to face Misha, to explain his reasoning, but Jared was there first.

 “I’m sorry,” Jared twisted to look at Misha, his voice neutral but his eyes hostile. “Who are you?”

 “Misha Collins,” he said with a polite incline of his head. “Imogen’s teacher.”

 “Right, well,” Jared’s eyes tightened in the corners. “Thank you for your concern, but this is a family matter. I am taking  _my daughter_  home.”

 “That is, of course, your prerogative,” Misha said without missing a beat. He stood, smoothing his dark gray sweater vest with busy hands. “Should I find someone to take your shift at the book fair tomorrow, Jen?”

 “Oh, uh, no,” he said, pushing upright as well. “It’s fine, I’ll be there. Thanks Mr. Collins.”

 “Yeah, my pleasure,” Misha replied after the briefest of pauses. His face and neck flushed for the first time since Jensen knew him. He reached out and ruffled Imogen’s hair. “Feel better Imogen. Don’t forget to study for the spelling test on Friday. Good day Mr. Padalecki…  _Mr. Ackles_.”

 Jensen watched Misha walk out of the room, noting the man’s stiff back and quick steps. He checked his body’s call to action, the insane compulsion to follow Misha and finish what had been disrupted in the lounge. With a deep breath, he forced his tense muscles to relax. He had been fighting the urge to give in to Misha’s relentless pursuit for over a month; he’d gotten good at convincing himself he didn’t need it.  

 The friendship that had blossomed from the pursuit was invaluable to Jensen, despite his earlier attempt to disavow it. Misha was right; they  _were_  friends. They had shared hundreds of texts since they’d met—some about Imogen, but most were not. They had talked on the phone—actually talked—so much that Jensen gave thanks for unlimited mobile minutes. Yeah, he had taken it all for granted.

 There was little doubt that he’d hurt Misha by calling him Mr. Collins. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. Imogen had heard him call her teacher by his first name more times than not. But Jensen had never told his daughter that Misha called him almost every night after she was tucked into her monsterless bed. He never told her that Misha listened to his worries about Imogen’s future or about his plans to write children’s books. She didn’t need to know that Misha told her father about his love of carpentry or regaled him with stories from his youth as a nomad. There was an implied veil of secrecy that hung heavily between Jensen-and-Imogen and Jensen-and-Misha.

 “What’s his problem?” Jared asked after Misha had disappeared. Mrs. Valley discreetly slipped into her office in the back of the clinic, clicking the door shut.

 Jensen didn’t respond. He looked down at Jared and Imogen, his gut twisting viciously. Regardless of how Jared wronged him, there was no escaping the fact that he was still family—and would be for the rest of their lives, thanks to Imogen. The tether was there, as strong as steel.

 “Let’s get out of here,” Jared said, scooping Imogen into his arms and leading the charge out of the room. It was just like it had been for years and years, Jared in the lead Jensen at his right hand. “I’ve got a car waiting.”

 “I have to grab Immy’s coat and backpack from Mr. Collins,” Jensen said, reaching out to stop Jared by grabbing his arm. “Wait for me in the lobby. Your driver can follow me to the house.”

 It didn’t take long for Jensen to make it to Room 22 and step inside. The children were so accustomed to his presence in the room that no one even looked at him. Misha’s eyes narrowed at the intrusion, but he did not pause in his lecture about Christopher Columbus. Jensen silently gathered Imogen’s thick sweater and her _Spider Man_  backpack (Jared’s turn as Peter Parker had revived the film franchise the previous summer).

 He paused at the door on his way out and turned to look at Misha as he paced in front of his oversized Rand McNally world map. He listened to the lecture, which seemed to get bloodier and favor the Native Americans more and more as the seconds ticked by, until it became apparent that Misha intended to ignore the man he’d tried a hundred times over to stalk, seduce or otherwise sway.

  _Fuck_ , Jensen thought and quickly left the classroom, just as a few interested sets of eyes swung his way. He slung the backpack over his left shoulder and drew his phone out of his pocket, jabbing at the screen as he headed to the parking lot.

  _I’m sorry,_  he typed. _Please call me._

 A quick look at his watch told him Misha would not retrieve the message for another hour and a half when the final bell sounded. He checked the battery on his phone and turned the volume up, for fear of missing Misha’s response.

 “Everything okay?” Jared asked as Jensen approached them in the lobby. Imogen had her arms clamped around her Papa’s neck and her legs locked around his torso, looking to all the world like she never meant to release her hold. “The freckles are out.”

 “It’s fine,” Jensen said with more snark than he intended, annoyed by Jared’s ability to read him, even after a year apart. No one else would have discerned the subtle darkening of his freckles, or rather, the paling of his skin. “I was just worried about Immy.”

 “Do you want to grab some lunch?” Jared asked as they walked toward the dark SUV patiently waiting to whisk him away. The two men fell in step together, an unconscious move that their legs remembered well. “I’m famished.”

 “I can pull out the leftovers from last night,” Jensen offered, which made his ex’s lips turn up. Jared loved Jensen’s cooking almost as much as he loved his own mama’s. “It was just meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but I could turn it into a sandwich.”

 “Oh my god,” Jared groaned. “I love you.”

 Jensen snapped his head around to glare at Jared, who was looking back at him with a panicked expression on his face. They both looked at Imogen, who seemed to be drifting off to sleep in Jared’s arms.

 “I’m sorry,” Jared stammered.

 “Why don’t you send your driver away,” Jensen said with a sigh. He headed toward his car, fingering the beaded key chain charm Imogen had made him in kindergarten.  _#1 Dad._  Damn right he was. “You can ride with us.”

 “It was just an expression,” Jared continued with his awkward apology. “I—I didn’t mean—”

 “I get that, Jay,” Jensen cut him off, pulling open the back door for Jared to settle Imogen into her booster seat. “Go get your bags.”

 “Papa, don’t leave,” Imogen’s hands clamped around one of Jared’s, suddenly wide-awake. Her eyes ricocheted around the car and her breath came out in labored pants. “Stay.”

 Jared turned his face away from Imogen, toward Jensen. It both saddened and satisfied Jensen to see his ex face-to-face with the emotional damage he’d done Imogen. Jared had managed to avoid the worst of it; keeping his contact to telephone calls and video chats. The depth of the little girl’s anxiety could only be understood in person.

 “I’ll get your bags,” Jensen said with a sigh. He stretched around Jared to lean into the car to stroke Imogen’s face. “Papa is right here, staying with you. Calm down, monkey, deep breaths.”

 Imogen nodded jerkily, but tugged Jared closer to her. He stood back and watched as Jared climbed over Imogen and sat on the lumpy middle seat, draping an arm around the back of the small booster seat. Imogen twisted and wrapped her ankles around Jared’s knee, trapping him in place as best she could.

  

**

  **~Misha~**

 

Misha moved up and down the wide aisle of the grocery store, trying to visualize the list he’d left on his kitchen counter. The list was scribbled on his ironic WWJD post-it pad (or, as he called them, Jeezits), which was next to the phone in the kitchen. He could picture Jesus’ somberly raised two fingers as well as the little check boxes along the bottom where you could choose “Yes”, “No”, “Maybe” or “Hell no” in response to the pre-printed question: “Would Jesus do it?”

 He knew there were five things on the list that he was sure Jesus himself would likely buy… but he could only think of one thing: Tequila and lots of it. Jesus always struck Misha as a Tequila man.

 He blamed Jared Padalecki for his stunning lack of list recall. He was strung out and tense from the kiss-tease he’d been forced to endure at the hands of Jared Padalecki. He’d been close enough to kissing Jensen that their noses had brushed together and their breaths mingled. They’d been so close to acknowledging the attraction that had sparked to life in that bar before they’d truly met. That had all come to a screeching, skid marking stop with Jared Padalecki’s unexpected arrival.

 Jensen had been quick to dismiss him—called him Mr. Collins for Chrissake—when Jared decreed it was time to  _go home_. The connection he thought he’d forged with Jensen snapped life a rotted branch beneath the weight of a well-fed bobcat.

 He was willing to bet a large portion of his earnings on the fact that Jensen was hung up on Jared like a coat on a hook. It didn’t take a master of observation to see the chemistry between the two. They had practically eye fucked over the top of Imogen’s head, and Jensen had been quick to dismiss him to be alone with his ex.

 Leaning on the pushcart in front of him with his forearms, he tossed his phone from one hand to the other. In his inbox was a text from Jensen that he’d yet to open. He wasn’t in the market for canned apologies or wordy excuses.

 “Okay, look,” Vicki said as she approached carrying a bag of frozen peas and a package of English Muffins. “You’re starting to piss me off. Give it to me.”

 She dropped her food into the cart and snatched the phone out of her friend’s hands. Two pointed clicks later, she had the message open and read it aloud: “’I’m sorry. Please call me.’ Huh. I thought there’d be more.”

 Misha took the phone back and stared down at the four-hours-old message.  _I’m sorry. Please call me_. He snorted a humorless chuckle. Figured Jensen would want to talk it out instead of relying on the comfort of the texted word.

 “Are you going to call him?” Vicki asked after another few minutes of silent cart pushing. She reached out for a box of Raisin Nut Bran and crossed it off her shopping list, which Misha thought she was using just to gloat.

 “Not while his ex-husband is living in his house,” Misha said definitively. When it came to ex drama, he wanted to be as far away as possible. “They were together for  _years_. There’s no competing with that.”

 “Oh, Mish,” Vicki slid her hand into the crook of her friend’s arm. “Not only could you compete with that overgrown galoot, you could wipe the floor with him. Hell,  _he_ can’t compete with  _you_.”

 “My ego just can’t get enough of you,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “But I can’t call. It’s one thing to chase a man; it’s quite another to go in guns blazing to break up a family.”

 He stopped in front of the cookie display and picked up a package of Double Stuffed Oreos. They weren’t on the Jeezits list, he knew that for a fact, but the stomach wants what the stomach wants.

 “You should call him,” Vicki insisted and added a package of Nutter Butters to the cart. “You guys are friends, and friends call each other.  _Especially_  when an ex shows up to crash on your couch. He needs you right now, Misha.”

 He sighed and rolled his eyes at her flawed logic. He and Jensen weren’t friends—not exactly. They were more… what were they? He’d called himself Jensen’s friend in the teacher lounge. He remembered being quite adamant about that point. But it all changed (didn’t it?) with their almost kiss. The dynamic had shifted in the space between heartbeats. The mutual attraction had been laid bare and there was no way to throw a robe over it now.

 “I’ll text him,” Misha finally said. He pulled his phone out and sucked his lower lip as he considered his message. Vicki smiled and hovered at his elbow, reading as he typed. “No worries. Out with Vicki now, but will be home by 7 if you want to talk.”

 “That’s good,” Vicki approved before he hit the send button. “Nice and neutral.”

 It was as they were carrying their purchases to Misha’s car that Jensen responded:  _I could use a drink. You up for it?_

 “Oooh,” Vicki said, shoving their last bag into the trunk. She waited until they were inside the car, with Misha staring at his phone screen, until she said her piece. “Invite him over.”

 “A bar would be better,” he said, more to himself than to his friend. He wasn’t sure if he could resist chasing a kiss if he got Jensen alone, his decision not to disturb a family notwithstanding. “Safer.”

 “No way,” Vicki grabbed the phone. “I’m sending him your address. Talking at a bar is ridiculous. And really, Mish, could you be more dense? He wants to have _drinks_  with you.”

 “I got that.”

 “Have Drinks is code word for fuck, you dumbass.”

 “I don’t think so,” he objected, keeping his eyes trained on a family of four headed toward the store. Two kids, one father, one mother, just like God and society intended. “He probably just wants to tell me the teacher’s lounge was a mistake. That he wants Jared back.”

 “What gives with the punk-ass attitude?” Vicki returned the phone. She was his best friend, hands down, but sometimes she could be a tad vicious with her honesty. Of course, that was one of the reasons he loved her. “He’s finally coming after you, and you’ve, what, changed your mind?”

 “No,” he shook his head. “I want him. And I think I want Imogen, too.”

 “Um, eew?”

 “Jesus, Vicki,” Misha cringed and then laughed when he belatedly picked up on the joke. “You are so twisted.”

 “Seriously,” she folded a leg up and turned her whole body to face Misha. “You’re talking about the kid? You haven’t even kissed the guy yet.”

 “I know,” he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. “I wish I could have just fucked him that first night we met. I think the missed opportunity is fueling this madness.”

 “That’s possible,” Vicki said softly. Misha rolled his head to peer at her, the invitation to continue clear in his eyes. “But not probable. You  _like_  him and you haven’t kissed him. It’s like you’ve done things right this time. You got to know him.”

 He closed his eyes and rolled his head away again. Damn her perception. He did know Jensen—knew that he was creeped out by dragonflies but loved Praying Mantes, that he wanted a very specific kind of cat (an Oriental, because they are like dogs, but are  _cats_ ), that he hated the SUV Jared bought him, that he hated Justin Bieber but knew the lyrics to every one of his songs, that Stonehenge was his favorite place in the world, that his mother’s house always smelled like lilacs, that he practiced Tai Chi, but thought yoga was lame.

 “What do I do?” He asked. It was not like him to doubt himself, and he did not like it.

 “Talk to him,” Vicki said at once. Her hand slipped into his hair, curling the strands around her fingertips. He loved that Vicki was so tactile, so he tilted his head closer to her. “Try telling him how you feel. Even if he thinks he wants Jared back, you owe it to yourself—and to him—to let him know all of his options.”

 “That’s just a lot of words for honesty, right?”

 “Honesty?” Vicki pulled her hand away to press it to her chest like she was offended. “Who said anything about honesty?”

 “My apologies,” he grinned and reached for the keys in the ignition. “Well, if honesty is off the table, I need to stop at the liquor store. Jesus needs some Tequila.”

 “Of course he does, sweetie,” Vicki said, buckling her seatbelt. “The son of God is  _such_  a lush.”

  

**

  **~Jensen~**

Jensen stood at the counter in the kitchen in front of three bottles of pills and a purple pill minder with glittery yellow stars stuck to each day of the week. In the middle of the stars were the first letter of the corresponding day of the week. He’d made it fun for Imogen to take her medications. He didn’t want her to feel like she was different, or at least any more different than she would always be. Imogen had two daddies. That was different enough.

 Three pills for three diagnoses: A mood stabilizer, an anxiety pill, a depression pill. Just like it did every time he refilled the little purple box, Jenson found himself swept up in a storm of hatred. He  _hated_  Jared and what he had done to his precious little girl. He ground his teeth, much to his dentist’s horror, and fought to keep his emotions under tight control. It wouldn’t do any good for Imogen to see his anger. Her therapist had cautioned him that she needed to see him strong and positive.

 He had forgiven Jared for cheating. He had forgiven him for breaking his heart. But he had not forgiven him for what he’d done to Immy. He wasn’t sure if he ever would. And Jared coming back to town on some misguided mission to help Imogen recover was just that. Jensen knew that when Jared left, Imogen would be more wrecked than when he’d kept his distance.

 “You shouldn’t grind your teeth,” Jared said from behind Jensen. Jensen didn’t flinch; he’d heard his ex shuffling down the hall moments before he’d made his appearance in the kitchen. “I can see your jaw jumping like a show pony all the way from here.”

 “Yeah, thanks mom,” Jensen grunted, not turning around. His shoulders drew together across his back, his guard duly raised. “Where’s Immy? I didn’t think she’d let you out of her sight this soon.”

 “She’s on the couch, asleep,” Jared said, moving to the coffee maker, which was in the same exact location as it had been in their shared Los Angeles home, nestled between the sink and the Humpty Dumpty cookie jar. “Do you want a cup?”

“Sure,” Jensen said. He finished sorting the pills and put all of the bottles in a lock box. The box went up on the top shelf, behind the cereal.

 “Is that really necessary?” Jared asked, dropping into a kitchen chair with a familiarity that disturbed Jensen to his core. He heard Misha’s words in his head, asking him if Jared’s stay in his home was a good idea. “What kid goes after more medicine?”

 “One who’s severely depressed,” Jensen snapped, shutting the cabinet door with more force than he intended.

 “Yeah, okay,” Jared said quietly. He sipped at his coffee and held out his hand, gesturing to the chair in front of him. “Come talk to me. Tell me how she’s been.”

 “She’s been miserable,” Jensen said honestly, sitting and pulling his steaming cup in front of him. “She misses you like crazy. Asks me every damn night if you’re coming home.”

 “I know,” Jared said, and for a moment, Jensen felt guilty for telling him such a horrific truth. “I asked Gen to give me a week alone here before she came up. I don’t know how to make this better. How do I make this better, Jensen?”

 “No way, you dick,” Jensen said with a laugh. He didn’t understand how it was possible for him to laugh with Jared over such a heartbreaking topic, but he wasn’t about to stop to question it. “You have to sort that out yourself. I will say that you need to be here more. She doesn’t understand why we came here. She misses LA.”

 “No one misses LA,” Jared contradicted. He smiled wryly at Jensen. “I wanted her to grow up without the damn paparazzi following her around. We always loved it up here, near the mountains. You said it grounded you; reconnected you to the earth. I just thought…”

 “Yeah,” Jensen said and fell into silence that wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. It was like that between the two of them. After the initial awkwardness of the break up, they had fallen back into easy conversation—although they tended to fight more often than they had as a couple.

 “Look,” Jared cleared his throat and pressed his elbows into the oak table. Jensen’s eyes found a dot of jelly that must’ve slipped off Imogen’s toast that morning. It sat dangerously close to Jared’s right elbow, but he said nothing. “Gen and I are not doing great.”

 “That’s too bad,” he said, taking another sip of coffee. His internal pettiness gave a HA! of pleasure at the news. “What’s going on?”

 “It’s Immy,” Jared said, moving his elbow so that it dragged across the strawberry jelly mess. “She thinks I should cut and run.”

 The coffee cup in Jensen’s hand crashed into the table with enough force to crack the cup up the sides, right across the World’s Greatest Dad proclamation. Coffee dribbled out of the fissure, but he didn’t care.

 “Are you fucking kidding me?” He hissed, mindful of Imogen asleep just one room away. “How could you do that to her, Jared? She’s your daughter as much as she’s mine!”

 “I would  _never_  do that,” Jared snapped, leaning over the table to glare at Jensen.

 “Is that why you never visit her?”

 “Yes,” Jared said after a pause, as if he did not want to answer the question at all. “I didn’t know what to do. She was pregnant, Jensen. I was trying to do the right thing.”

 “That’s hilarious.”

 “You know what I mean,” Jared said, lifting his hand to drag it through his hair. The jelly clung to his white shirt, distracting Jensen’s vision. “I was trying to be there for her and then for Tyson. I knew you were taking care of Immy.”

 Jensen stood up, swiping the leaking cup from the table and walking it to the sink. He braced himself against the counter and stared out the window, focusing his eyes on the orange and purple sunset over the Puget Sound. He loved the view from that window; it made washing dishes infinitely more bearable.

 “I want more time with Imogen,” Jared said from just over Jensen’s right shoulder. “I told Gen that losing my daughter is not an option. So here I am, asking for more time.”

 “What does that mean?”

 “Well, for now it means that I’m here. And I’ll be here for as long as I can manage. I’m going to spend as much time with Imogen as possible.”

 “You can’t disappear again, Jared,” Jensen warned.

 “I don’t plan on it,” the other man said, pouring more coffee into his cup and returning to the kitchen table. He sipped in silence for a few minutes, his eyes taking inventory of the house he’d paid for. “I want to meet Imogen’s therapist. And her teacher.”

 “You already met her teacher,” Jensen said with a snort. “You were a dick to him.”

 “Yeah, well,” Jared laughed, not apologizing. There wasn’t much in his life that he’d ever had to apologize for. Jensen both envied and pitied him.

 “She has a therapy appointment on Thursday,” Jensen said grudgingly as he opened the cupboard for a new cup. The I Love Men cup had been a Christmas gift several years back from his sister, Mackenzie. It still made him smile. “Maybe you can… come with me to work the Book Fair tomorrow? I can introduce you to Misha again.”

 “Misha, is it?” Jared asked with a sly grin. “Is there something going on with you two?”

 “No,” came the quick response that made him cringe internally. He wished he had honed his lying abilities like Jared had. The best he could do was deflect and redirect; he was good at that. “He’s been good to Immy, really took her under his wing. She trusts him, which is a big thing for her.”

 “I get it, Jensen,” Jared said sharply, slapping the palm of his hand onto the table. He shoved his chair away and got to his feet. “Imogen doesn’t trust anyone  _since I left_. She hates women  _since I left_. She’s broken  _since I left_. I fucking get it, dude.”

 “I wasn’t—”

 “You have to quit trying to punish me,” Jared continued, his long legs taking huge strides around the kitchen as he paced out his frustration. “I  _know_  I messed up, but I don’t need you on my ass every minute I’m here.”

 “Jared,” Jensen said in a loud, clear voice full of command making Jared stop and swing his face around to glare at him. “I wasn’t taking a hit at you.”

 “Well, maybe you should,” Jared mumbled, heading back to the table again. Jensen had forgotten how antsy Jared could be, never sitting or standing in one spot for longer than thirty seconds at a time. “Man, I messed  _up_.”

 Jensen could only agree with Jared if he opened his mouth, so he kept it shut and let his ex wallow in his self-deprecation. It was good that the younger man felt something akin to remorse. There was hope, Jensen thought.

 “Papa?” Imogen’s small voice made both men jump and straighten.

 “Hey there, monkey,” Jared opened his arms in invitation. Imogen did not hesitate to skip across the room and throw herself into his lap. “Nice nap?”

 “Yes,” she said and twisted the thick silver ring Jared wore on his right middle finger. Jensen hadn’t noticed it before; it was the match to the one he had hidden in the back of his sock drawer. “Daddy doesn’t wear his ring anymore. Why not?”

 Jared’s eyes came up and locked on Jensen’s bare fingers. His forehead creased and then smoothed. Jensen couldn’t stop the spasmodic twitching of his face. He was suddenly exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of the day. He didn’t understand why Jared was wearing his damn wedding ring, or why Genevieve  _let_  him. All he wanted was to run away, far away where he could not feel anything. He craved the numbness he’d known the first month after Jared had left. He had functioned like an automaton, going through the motions of life for Imogen, but when the house was quiet—in a way it never had been before, even when Jared had been working on location for weeks at a time—he let the apathy wind its way through his senses. He would sit entire nights on the edge of their bed and stare at the half-empty closet. 

 He shook his head and refocused on the scene before him. Jared was talking to Imogen softly, smoothing her hair behind her ears. She was crying quietly, but he managed to quell the urge to go to her. Jared would comfort her; he had to because Jensen himself was in no position to do so.

 “I’m going to head out for a bit,” Jensen said, pulling his car keys from the pocket of his jeans. “Give you guys some time alone. There’s a ham in the fridge and fixins in the pantry.”

 He bent and kissed the top of their daughter’s head, the exact spot Jared had just caressed so lovingly. He could smell Jared’s skin on her and he pulled back abruptly. The need to escape before Jared completely overwhelmed him was undeniable. It had taken him months to let go of the love he had for Jared, and while he was in no danger of loving Jared like he once had, it was unsettling to be so surrounded by the man.

 “Take care of her,” Jensen directed.

 “I will,” Jared said, and for the first time in a year, Jensen believed him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**~Jensen~**

 

The lights were on at Misha’s house. It was a small coral colored duplex snuggled between two similar structures on either side. A rainbow flag flew proudly over the doorway of the house to the left of Misha’s, and a black flag with a purple triangle flew over the doorway of the house to the right.  
   
Jensen sat in his car across the street and watched as Misha walked in front of the living room window, giving him an unfettered view. He seemed to be tidying up, moving stacks of books from one side of the room to the other, all the while moving his lips—singing, Jensen guessed. He looked happy—excited.  
   
If he walked into that house, Jensen would be starting something with Misha. They would move forward into something that had the potential to kill Jensen dead. There was no way, he thought, that he could survive another heartache like the one after Jared left. He didn’t care if it made him a coward—he was scared. Scared of trusting, of loving, of Misha. He pulled out his phone.  
   
_Can’t make it tonight. Sorry._  
   
Jensen watched from the car as Misha read the text in front of his window. His shoulders drooped and his eyes closed and stayed that way for several seconds. When he opened them again, he tapped out a text that did not match his physical reaction.

  
_No problem. I'm grading papers anyway. Rain check?_  

Jensen watched Misha stare at his phone, waiting for a reply. After three minutes, his lips formed a swear ( _fuck_ ) and put his phone to his ear. He started gesticulating as he paced and talked. There were a few steps to the left of the window that stole Misha away from Jensen, but he always reappeared just as Jensen reached for the ignition. He had to be talking to Vicki, Jensen figured, which made him blush. He would have to face Vicki everyday of Imogen’s third grade year, and now she knew he’d stood up her best friend. Wonderful.  
   
He started the car without further hesitation. He needed whiskey and a blowjob. Being in Capitol Hill, there was no shortage of bars that would yield him both in short order. He pulled up to the first one he saw—Madison Pub—and hurried inside. It was surprisingly low-key, with a traditional pub feel to it. A quick scan of the room told him that  _yes_ , Madison’s would get him what he needed.  
   
He shed his heavy jacket; happy he’d chosen a fitted tee shirt for his failed date with Misha. He’d almost worn his favorite, knobby fisherman’s sweater, which would have done him no favors in his pursuit of sex. A tall blond eyed him from across the room. With a quirk of his brow, Jensen gave him the all clear to make his approach.  
   
“Hey,” the man said when he got close enough for Jensen to smell his Aqua Gio cologne. “What are you drinking?”  
   
“Jameson, straight up,” Jensen said, leaning his back against the tall bar ledge. The guy was attractive in the most traditional sense; big muscles, broad shoulders, tapered waist, artfully mussed hair. He could have been a catalog model, so yeah, he’d do.  
   
“You look familiar,” the guy was saying when Jensen bothered to pay attention. “What’s your name?”  
   
“Ross,” he said automatically giving his middle name. He and Jared had been  _Out_  cover boys several times and were revered in the gay community—until, of course, the community had turned on Jared for going straight. The last thing Jensen wanted was to be a trophy fuck or worse, have his trolling in the tabloids the next morning.  
   
“I’m Chad,” the blond said, although Jensen didn’t care.  
   
The bartender put a glass of Jameson in front of Jensen, which he greedily drank down. After a second, he finally turned to Chad, letting his eyes fall half-closed.  
   
“I’m not looking for anything outside of tonight,” he said, not bothering to use his best flirty voice. If Chad wasn’t interested, he’d just move on to the next contender. It wasn’t his usual M.O., but Jensen was desperate to forget. “So, you wanna?”  
   
Chad’s blond eyebrows—so different than Jared or Misha’s—lifted in shock. His laugh came out as a stutter. “Well all right then,” he said. “Your place or mine?”  
   
“Neither,” Jensen said, reaching out and trailing a finger down Chad’s toned arm.  
   
“Yeah, okay,” Chad drained his own drink and stood. He moved toward the bathroom behind the kitchen, throwing a come hither look over his shoulder that, under different circumstances, would have made Jensen roll his eyes.  
   
It didn’t take long for Chad to pull Jensen into a stall and slam him against the graffiti-covered wall. Jensen avoided the kiss Chad aimed at his mouth, letting the man lick and bite at his neck instead.  
   
“No marks,” Jensen snapped at a particularly sharp bite. He settled his palms on Chad’s shoulders and applied pressure, ready to skip the foreplay and get to business. Guilt was already seeping into Jensen’s chest, but he batted it away and concentrated on Chad’s smirk as he sank to his knees.  
   
His head jerked back and hit the flimsy wall behind him as Chad swallowed him down.  _Months_ , he thought as Chad worked.  _It’s been months._ Jared had always loved sucking his cock, and looking back, he should have known the last time was The Last Time. Jared had used every trick he’d known—including some Jensen couldn’t remember him using before; He’d damn near  _worshipped_  his cock, taking his time and ultimately crying when Jensen had finally come.  
   
Jensen thrust hard into Chad’s mouth, punishing him for sins of Jared’s past. He looked down to remind himself that the blond gagging around him was not his ex.  
   
“Sorry,” he had the decency to mumble. He planted his hands on Chad’s head to prevent the other man from pulling away. It felt good, but he had no desire to draw the experience out. The whiskey was working its magic, warming and relaxing his muscles. He kept his movements shallow, and when he felt his orgasm rushing up on him, he pushed Chad away and stroked himself once, twice, and came with a relieved grunt.  
   
His head hit the wall again and he briefly considered repaying the man’s favor, but Chad was already working it out on his own. Jensen tucked himself back into his jeans and politely waited while Chad finished. He widened his stance to avoid getting a shot of come on his shoes.  
   
“Thanks,” Jensen said, his hand on the door before Chad was finished moaning through his release. “I needed that.”  
**  
  
**~Misha~**  
  
It didn’t take long for Vicki to convince Misha to meet her at Madison’s for a round of post blow-off drinks. School night or not, being stood up for the first time in a decade warrants at least three shots. He waved to Vicki as he made his way from the front door to the bar, but before he made it five steps, he was ambushed from the side, knocking him off balance.  
   
“Watch it,” he snapped, shoving at the body using his as a support beam. “Drunk assho—Jen?”  
   
“Heeeey, handsome,” Jensen pressed back into Misha and smacked a kiss on the side of his neck.  
   
Misha’s mouth worked, opening and closing, but no sound came out. Jensen was standing next to him, not curled up around Jared at home, but in the middle of a gay bar in his own neighborhood. He’d been stood up, but he’d apparently misjudged the reasons behind it.  
   
“Are you drunk?” Misha finally managed to get out.  
   
“Definitely,” Jensen said unrepentantly as he started pushing Misha towards the bar. “You need to catch up.”  
   
Misha didn’t resist as they approached the bar, where Vicki watched with wide-eyed surprise. The bartender lit up like the Griswold’s house at Christmas when he saw Jensen.  
   
“Back so soon?” The bartender asked with an audacious wink. Misha thunked against the bar, Jensen’s weight pressing against him from behind.  
   
“Misha needs a drink,” he declared before asking: “What do you want, Mish?”  
   
“Two Cowboy Cocksuckers,” Vicki suggested, staring openly at the man she’d only ever seen inside the hallowed halls of Seattle Waldorf, looking stuffy and staid in his collared shirts and casual blazers.  
   
“Make it three,” Jensen slurred. “I need another one of those.”  
   
“I don’t think Chad qualifies as a cowboy,” the bartender laughed as he poured the shots into three glasses. He’d yet to acknowledge Misha or Vicki’s presence, even though they stood between Jensen and the bar. “But he’s one a hell of a cocksucker, huh?”  
   
Misha whipped his head around to gape at Jensen, who’d thrown his head back and laughed loudly. He played the words again in his head, and he was fairly certain that Beefy McBiceps was insinuating that Jensen had gotten a blowjob from some plebe named  _Chad_.  
   
“He was all right,” Jensen said and pulled a face Misha had never seen before. “The Russian Judge gives him a five for technique and a three for creativity.”  
   
Beefy slammed his fist on the top of the bar and roared with laughter. “Damn, man,” he said once he settled into a chuckle. “This round is on me.”  
   
“What the hell?” Vicki asked, poking Misha in the side to get his attention. “He stood you up so he could score a backroom blowjob? Let’s get out of here.”  
   
He listened to Jensen and the bartender trade a few more lines of innuendo and outright flirting before he admitted Vicki had a point. He downed his shot, licked his lips and gently pushed Jensen’s weight away so he could free his body. He twisted slightly and followed Vicki away from the bar.  
   
“Hey, wait,” Jensen grabbed him by both arms and jerked him back. His feet stumbled over themselves, but before he could fall, he hit Jensen’s chest. “You just got here. Don’t leave.”  
   
“You didn’t want to see me earlier,” Misha said before he could stop himself. Damn, his words sounded as pouty as his voice. He coughed once and forced himself to regain control. “You stay here and continue the destruction of your liver. Fun, wooo!”  
   
“I want to go with you,” Jensen wrapped his arm around Misha’s middle and bent him slightly forward. He nuzzled into the back of the other man’s neck, using his teeth to nip at the tender skin not covered by Misha’s dark hair or his blue shirt. “It’s about time we screw, don’t you think?”  
   
“What the hell?” Vicki’s concerned voice broke through the sudden hazy fog of impending bad decisions banging around in Misha’s head. He couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t engage in some extracurricular activities with the man he’d wanted since first laying eyes on him.  
   
“I—I don’t think I should leave him like this,” Misha said on a gasp as Jensen licked the skin he’d just bit. “I can’t let him drive home. It would be irr—irresponsible to leave him on his own.”  
   
Vicki snorted, unimpressed by his weak good Samaritan act. She patted his chest and said something that sounded like ‘baseline tortellini signals bare’, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t right. It was difficult to focus on anything that wasn’t Jensen’s mouth. She left him on his own, just like a good best friend should when a pretty ass presented itself for the taking. God, he loved the woman.  
   
Jensen manhandled him around, bringing them chest to chest. There was no hesitation when the kiss finally came; both mouths met, open and ready to play. If he’d stopped to search his memory, Misha would not have been capable of finding a dirtier kiss than that one. Standing in the middle of the moderately crowded Madison Pub, with Rufus Wainwright warbling through the speakers, they moaned and gasped and grabbed and twisted. When loud catcalls and applause broke through their bubble of sexual tension, it was Misha that pulled away.  
   
“Jen, wait,” he stepped away when Jensen moved to kiss him again. “Let’s get out of here.”  
   
“Yeah, okay,” Jensen staggered forward and slung an arm over Misha’s shoulders, leaning heavily into his side. He pressed his lips to whatever skin he could find and let Misha steer them from the bar. “Your place or mine?”  
   
 Misha chuckled, gripping Jensen’s waist tight. The thought of fucking Jensen in the same house as Jared held a certain appeal, but Imogen…  _Christ._  He paused with his key in the door of his car.  
   
Jensen pushed against him, angling their faces to kiss again, but Misha held tight to the thought of Imogen and pushed him away.  
   
“No, wait,” he said with a beleaguered sigh. “This is a bad idea. We have to stop.”  
   
“What?” Jensen let his hands drop to his side. His eyebrows tilted down in confusion. “Why?”  
   
“You’re drunk,” Misha said, waving a hand in the air to encompass Jensen generally. “ _Really_  drunk. You’ll regret this when you sober up. I don’t want you like this.”  
   
“You don’t want me?”  
   
“Jesus, Jensen,” Misha said with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t go all Bella Swan on me now. I said I don’t want you  _like this_. You know damn well I want you. But I want you when you’ve decided that you want me—when you’re sober.”  
   
“You’re an idiot,” Jensen said fervently.  
   
“Yeah,” Misha agreed. He opened the passenger side door and carefully lowered Jensen into the seat, who grumbled about fairness and cock teases. “What’s your address?  
   
“I don’t even fucking know,” Jensen laughed.  
   
“Right,” Misha said, feeling justified in his decision to put a kibosh on the drunken sex. He ignored his dick’s angry throb of protest. “Give me your phone.”  
   
The familiar phone was thrown at Misha with little regard. He fumbled in the air a few seconds before settling the phone in his palm. He slid his finger across the screen to unlock it, tried valiantly to ignore the smiling picture of Imogen missing her two front teeth, and went to Jensen’s contacts. He found the name he wanted and pressed dial.  
   
“Hey man,” Jared said in greeting. The familiarity of those words jabbed Misha in the gut.  
   
“Uh,” Misha started and then cleared his throat. “Jared?”  
   
There was a pause. “Who’s this?”  
   
“This is,” he rubbed his fingers over his forehead and screwed his courage to its sticking point. It was official. He was in Hell—the level reserved for horny teachers who lusted after damaged single fathers, where the punishment was awkward phone calls from bar parking lots. “This is Misha Collins. Imogen’s teacher? Jen’s, uh, Jensen’s friend?”  
   
“Ah.”  
   
“You called  _Jared_?” Jensen sputtered from inside the car, reaching out to snatch the phone away, but Misha simply stepped away.  
   
“Jensen is a little drunk,” he said into the phone. “I need your address so I can get him home.”  
   
“He doesn’t handle alcohol well,” Jared said with a laugh. “Did he drink whiskey?”  
   
“I’m not sure,” Misha prevaricated. He eyed Jensen, who was lolling his head on the back of the seat, moaning. “I found him like this. Why?”  
   
“Whiskey is his fuck or fight.”  
   
“Then, yes,” Misha said, thinking back to Cowboy Chad, and the way Jensen had used his tongue to count and catalog every single one of Misha’s teeth. “I think he’s had whiskey. A lot of it.”  
   
“Did he punch…?”  
   
“No.”  
   
“Ah.”  
   
Misha leaned his forehead against the top of his little sedan and sighed. This was the most inappropriate conversation he’d ever had with a parent—outside of damn near everything he’d ever said to Jensen.  
   
After a few more beats of silence, Jared gave him the address in Queen Anne. He closed the passenger side door and made his way to the driver’s seat. By time he buckled his seat belt, Jensen was asleep.  
**  
Misha gave himself a minute to admire the beautiful Victorian house before opening his door. He wasn’t surprised by its size, given how Jensen openly complained about the hulking and largely unnecessary space. He reckoned he could fit his little house inside it five times over.  
   
Before the engine stopped clicking, Jared was in the driveway, hands out and ready to assist. “Hey,” he said when Misha got out. “He’s asleep, huh?”  
   
“Yeah, passed out before we ever left the parking lot,” Misha confirmed. “His car is still there.”  
   
“I’ll send someone over to get it,” Jared said, opening the door and reaching in to unbuckle Jensen. “Thanks for getting him home safely.”  
   
“Leave me the fuck alone,” Jensen snarled at Jared and tried to bat his ex’s hands away. “Why couldn’t you just stay away? You already have everything. Let me have this.”  
   
“Jen,” Jared huffed and bent low to snag an arm around his waist. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, without the whiskey.”  
   
“Don’t you dare call me that,” Jensen said, renewing his struggle to get free. “Only Misha can call me that.”  
   
“Hey, hey,” Misha hurried around the other side of the car and snuck a hand between Jensen and Jared, the latter of whom was staring at Misha with narrowed eyes. “Jen, hey, come on. He’s just trying to help me get you inside.”  
   
“I don’t need his fucking help,” Jensen said. He gestured widely at the house and the driveway, where his Range Rover was probably always parked. “He’s got me set up like a god damn kept woman. I don’t need any of it!”  
   
Misha spared a glance at Jared, who had stepped away with pinched features.  
   
“Why are you wearing the ring?” Jensen yelled, holding onto the open car door to keep his balance. “What the fuck is that about? You  _left_  us. Take it off!”  
   
The situation was rapidly deteriorating. The fuck seemed to have fled the scene, leaving only the fight. There was no reasoning with the whiskey flowing through his system. Given a choice between the two, there really  _was_  no choice. Misha inhaled through his blush, steadfastly refused to acknowledge Jared’s presence—except of course Jared as a witness to what he was about to do was the reason for the blush—and moved closer to Jensen.  
   
“Come on, Jen,” Misha whispered, pressing his cheek in order to Jensen’s to speak directly into his ear. He could smell the alcohol just under his skin, and wafting off his breath. “Let’s get you inside, get you undressed…put you to bed.”  
   
Jensen made a sound that Misha categorized as a whimper and then twisted to press their lips together. Misha allowed the kiss, letting him lick and suck and drive for a handful of delicious seconds.  
   
“There it is,” Misha breathed, running a hand up the other man’s side. He could almost pretend it was just the two of them, standing in the chilly Washington air, lazily kissing the evening away at the end of a perfect first date.  
   
“Please,” Jensen begged, which needed no further description. He said the word the way people moan for water after crossing an unforgiving desert, and damn if Misha wasn’t the one with the frosty cold canteen.  
   
All Jensen wanted, Misha reasoned, was a little relief; a little closeness, a little sex. What was the harm in giving in to such a pretty plea? There was nothing left for Misha to do but start for the front door. As he helped Jensen brush past Jared, he ducked his head.  
   
The foyer lights were down low when Misha pushed the front door open. He cast a quick look around, surprised by the simplistic theme of the décor. Before he could make a courteous comment, Jensen had him pushed into the corner, crushing the ficus tree living there.  _Thirty seconds_ , Misha thought as he opened his mouth once again to Jensen’s tongue.  _Thirty more seconds and I’ll put an end to this._  
   
Jared shut the door and stood just inside Misha’s field of vision, reminding him of things he didn’t want to remember. Namely? That Jensen did not belong to him.  
   
He used his grip on Jensen’s hips—how did they get there?—to steer Jensen toward the stairs. Jared slipped under one of Jensen’s arms and peeled him away from Misha. When Jensen made loud protest, Misha moved closer and drew Jensen’s other arm over his shoulder. As the unlikely trio made their way up the stairs as the drunken man continued to pepper Misha’s face and neck with mouthing little kisses. It was the longest trip of Misha’s life; he was exhausted by time their bizarre threesome shouldered their way into Jensen’s bedroom.  
   
“There you go,” Misha said as Jensen sank into his cushy bed. With a sigh, he rolled onto his stomach and hiked one leg up almost to his chest. All thoughts of sex seemed to be forgotten in favor of sleep. “Sleep well, Jen.”  
   
It was anticlimactic to say the least.  _Fuck my life_ , Misha thought as he turned to leave the room.  
   
“Thanks for bringing him home,” Jared said, following him out. He clicked the light off, but left the door open. Misha hoped Jensen wouldn’t choke on his own vomit in the middle of the night.  
   
“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Misha said as they descended the stairs. “It’s just… you said it was fuck or fight. I figured, you know, one was better than the other.”  
   
“I get that,” Jared said with a grin. They stood in the foyer, awkward and shifting. “Good thinking. Sorry if it was a hardship.”  
   
“No, no,” Misha shook his head and hedged his way to the door. “Anything for a friend, you know?”  
   
“So you’re Imogen’s teacher,” Jared said unnecessarily. He propped one of his stupidly muscular Hollywood pin-up boy shoulders against the front door, barring Misha’s escape. “How’s she doing in your class?”  
   
Misha blinked as he tried to shift mental gears. Jared wanted to talk about his little girl’s progress in second grade just minutes after Misha’s tongue had been in his ex-husband’s mouth. Yeah, he needed a minute before he could turn on the Mr. Collins Teacher Routine. He could normally rely on his desk to keep a discernible divide between him and the parents. He could shuffle his papers and flip through his grade book in order to maintain his position of authority.  
   
He didn’t have any of those tools at his disposal for his parent-teacher conference with Jared Padalecki, who was towering over him like some ridiculously hot Big Foot. He made an indignant sound. He was tired of these men unbalancing his world.  
   
“Perhaps it would be best to discuss Imogen’s studies at the school?” He finally suggested, pointedly putting a hand on the doorknob. “It’s getting late…”  
   
“Right, sorry,” Jared offered him a smile that crooked the sides of his mouth, but didn’t move away from the door. “Did you want to stay over? There’s a guest room.”  
   
“Aren’t you staying in there?” Misha asked and then had to fight to keep from punching himself in the face. “I mean…”  
   
“There’s room for two,” Jared said, sliding his shoulder across the door to lean over Misha. “If we get close.”  
   
“Jesus,” Misha jerked away, nearly falling over the ficus tree again. Leaves fell to the floor at his feet in a little ficus tree temper tantrum that Misha could totally relate to. “I really do have to go.”  
   
Finally— _finally_ —Jared pushed himself upright and opened the door for Misha. He wasted no time in speed walking down the driveway and practically throwing himself into his car. He barely checked the traffic on the quiet street before roaring away—well, as much roaring as a Toyota Corolla could muster.  
   
Jared Padalecki had  _hit on him_. Even after seeing Jensen clinging to him, Jared had made a very blatant move. Jensen had always been vague about what had happened between he and Jared, but Misha had been able to secure some of the details through Google (he was not proud). The infamous Jared Padalecki—the only out gay actor who could carry a mainstream movie to the top of the lists—had announced his engagement to a woman named Genevieve Cortese, as well as the expected arrival of his first biological child, a little over a year prior. He’d found dozens of rumors that pointed to Genevieve as the live-in nanny to Jared and Jensen’s adopted daughter, Imogen. There, of course, had been a scandal; but Misha had never cared enough to pay attention—until he’d met Jensen.  
   
“That dick,” Misha said into the silence of his car.  
   
He scraped his fingers through his hair and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. Part of him wanted to close himself off, to walk away from whatever had been developing between him and Jensen.  
   
“He’s not worth it,” Misha muttered, but as soon as the words were out, he scoffed at the sentiment. “He  _is_  worth it.”  
   
There was no way he would let himself be chased away by a pretentious actor so bored by his life that he had to cultivate misery and drama in the lives of others. He would not allow Jared to infect his friendship with Jensen. If Jared was looking for a fight—a competition—then Misha was happy to oblige. To the winner went the spoils: Jensen. Game fucking on.  
**  
**~Jensen~**  
  
The incessant beeping of his alarm clock was slow to pull Jensen from his comatose-like sleep. He didn’t open his eyes when he groped his night table to slap the snooze button. The damage was done, he was awake, but he instinctively kept his eyes tightly shut. He could feel—oh god, he could feel—the throbbing in his temples that reminded him of his time in the whiskey bottle.  
   
His memory was full of blurry images that made very little sense. He had cancelled his plans with Misha and had gone to a bar in Capitol Hill. He recalled the early rounds of Jameson with unerring clarity, but it got fuzzy somewhere around the time Misha had shown up. There was something about a phone call… and a ficus? Oh. And the blowjob from that guy… what was his name?  
   
“Daddy?” Imogen whispered from his bedside as she pulled back the covers and slipped in for their traditional morning snuggle. Jensen jerked in surprise and blushed a guilty red as he violently shoved the image of a blond man on his knees to the recesses of his mind. Imogen’s tiny feet rubbed against his jean-clad legs, seeking warmth for her cold toes. “Why did you sleep in your clothes?”  
   
“I was really tired,” he whispered back, causing his head to give an additional stab of pain. He swallowed and determinedly continued their morning routine. “Did you sleep well?”  
   
“I dreamed that I lived in Barbie’s Dream House,” she giggled and pushed her head into the crook of his arm. He curled his forearm around her, pulling her closer. “I was a ballerina. Ken was there.”  
   
“Of course he was,” Jensen said. “How about Skipper? Was she there, too?”  
   
“Oh yes,” Imogen nodded. “We had a fancy party and I had to wear my Easter dress and gloves. It was pretty cool.”  
   
“Sounds it,” he agreed and tentatively opened his eyes. He didn’t have the luxury of nursing his hangover; his daughter needed breakfast and a ride to school. She did not need to see him sick after a night of indulgence. “What do you want for breakfast this morning? Cereal?”  
   
“Waffles,” she corrected him. “I’m starving.”  
   
_Gah_ , he thought as his stomach flopped over itself.  
   
“I’m going to wake Papa up,” she said, pulling away from Jensen quickly, as if she’d just remembered her other father’s presence. Shit. Shitshitshit…  _he_  had forgotten. That meant that the half-formed memory of his arm slung around Jared’s shoulder…was Misha there?… was more than likely real.  
   
“I’ll lay your clothes out on your bed,” Jensen called after her. She turned back to roll her eyes to let him know that she  _knew_  how it worked.  
   
He sat up slowly, more willing to baby his traitorous body with his daughter out of the room. Cupping his head in both hands, he stood and staggered to his bathroom. He downed several aspirin and so much water that it sloshed dangerously in his stomach. After brushing his teeth and a hot shower, he felt more human and headed down to make breakfast.  
   
“Morning, sunshine,” Jared greeted him as soon as he crossed the threshold to the kitchen. “How you feeling?”  
   
“Fantastic,” he mumbled as he pulled out the ingredients for waffles. He felt the muscles of his back tensing and disagreeing with his proclamation, but he pretended not to notice.  
   
“So, about last night…” Jared started, but trailed off when Imogen skipped in, her Tinker Bell shoes shooting red lasers into Jensen’s sore eyes. “Uh, the Book Fair is today?”  
   
“Crud,” Jensen said as he cracked eggs into the waffle mixture. He’d promised to introduce Jared to Misha at the Book Fair—and to the joys of parental involvement. “Yeah, okay, Book Fair. Do you have your list, Immy?”  
   
“I want the Camp Rock Mad Libs,” she said, diving into her book bag for the newspaper-print Scholastic Books ad. “And the Guinness Book of World Records. And the poster with the kitten on it. Oooh, and the Harry Potter box set.”  
   
“That’s a tall order,” Jensen said with a warning glance at his daughter. “We talked about this. You have a fifteen-dollar budget. Christmas is around the corner.”  
   
“But  _Dad_ ,” Imogen whined.  
   
“Don’t but Dad me,” Jensen cut her off as he put the syrup and milk on the table. “Fifteen dollars.”  
   
“Jensen,” Jared said with a laugh. “I think we can afford more than that.”  
   
“See?” Imogen crawled into her chair. “Papa says—”  
   
“I said  _no_ ,” Jensen snapped, his voice louder than normal. His brain slammed into the back of his skull in protest. He turned toward Imogen and Jared with a spatula held out in front of him. “One more word about it and you get nothing, you hear me? And Jared, there is no  _we_ , so butt out.”  
   
Imogen’s cheeks and neck flushed a bright pink as she flinched away.  _Son of a bitch_ , Jensen thought, angry at himself for taking his frustration out on his daughter. He took a step toward her, but she made a mouse of a sound and hurried out of her chair, straight into Jared’s outstretched arms.  
   
“Maybe you should just let me handle the Book Fair,” Jared said, as if he was capable of doing anything remotely responsible. Jensen wanted to claw the superior expression from his face. “If you’re snapping at us over fifteen dollars, I can’t imagine you’ll do better with kids you  _aren’t_  supposed to love.”  
   
“No, I,” Jensen stammered, embarrassed. He’d never really yelled at Imogen before; she was a biddable and easygoing child who always followed the rules. “Immy. I’m sorry I yelled. I have a headache.”  
   
He took another step closer to his frightened daughter—and didn’t that just kick him in the teeth, Imogen frightened of  _him—_ but Jared shook his head. Instead, he retreated to the stove and wordlessly cooked several large waffles. By time he put them on a serving dish in the middle of the table, Imogen had returned to her own chair and was telling Jared about Justin Bieber’s new 3D movie, which was due out at Christmas.  
   
“Why don’t I see about getting tickets for the LA opening?” Jared suggested, sounding almost as excited as his star struck daughter. He grabbed two waffles and doused them with syrup and butter.  
   
“Omigod!” Imogen squealed, her hands waving in front of her chest like she was seizing. “Could you really? Madison would  _freak_.”  
   
“It could be one of our dates,” Jared added.  
   
“Silly Papa,” Imogen laughed and rolled her eyes, but Jensen knew she loved her dates with Jared.  
   
It was stupid, really, but Jared insisted on Imogen sharing five ‘dates’ with him before he would allow her to actually date a boy. From Jensen’s memory, they’d already racked up way more than the requisite five, but the tradition remained.  
   
“Let me make a call,” Jared said, obviously proud of his ability to enchant his daughter, his number one fan. “Justin and I are with the same agent, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”  
   
“I didn’t know that,” Jensen said before he could remind himself that he didn’t care. He’d been involved in the Hollywood game so long that he knew all the players. “Isn’t he with Creative Arts? What happened with United Talent? You’ve been with them for years.”  
   
“It was time for a change,” Jared said with a shrug. “UT can’t handle the major deals like Creative Arts can.”  
   
“Right,” Jensen turned his attention to his own waffle, which he coated with raspberry jam from the northern part of the state; Washington was a gold mine of fresh fruit products. He’d canceled his subscriptions to all the Hollywood dailies—and weeklies and monthlies. Now he read Mother Jones and Poets  & Writers.  
   
“You never really liked UT,” Jared said after a beat of silence.  
   
“That’s true,” he nodded. The move from United Talent to Creative Arts marked the first time that Jared had made such a big career decision without consulting Jensen. Rather, it was the first one Jensen had heard about. He offered Jared a small smile because it turned out that it didn’t hurt like he’d expected it to. “Sounds like a good move.”  
   
“I’m going to marry Justin Bieber,” Imogen said, still breathless at the mere idea of meeting her idol. “I just know it.”  
   
Jared and Jensen exchanged horrified looks and then laughed together. It didn’t matter why they were laughing, Jensen decided, it just mattered that they  _were_ laughing. Together, like they were friends.  
   
_Maybe today will_ not _suck_ , Jensen thought.  
   
**  
Jensen leaned against the counter at his post in the library, willing his head to stop throbbing. The first wave of students filed through the double doors, chattering in excitement. He nodded at the teacher—he knew them all by now—as she followed the students in.  
   
“Wow, I forgot how exciting book fairs were when we were kids,” Jared remarked as he restocked a tub of scented pencils near the cash register. He leaned next to Jensen and grinned as a bevy of giggling girls braved a glance his way. “This is awesome.”  
   
A second class arrived and the library was officially at capacity. Jensen pushed himself upright and sighed. He liked to walk around and make suggestions to the kids, but he was tethered to the check out.  
   
“Go ahead,” Jared said with a laugh and shove at Jensen’s shoulder. “I know you want to go out there. I’ll handle this.”  
   
“Yeah?” Jensen took a half step toward the crowd, but hesitated. “You sure?”  
   
“I used to work at the Taco Shack, remember?” Jared said. “If I can handle hungry Texans during the lunch hour rush, I think I can handle these kids.”  
   
He didn’t need any prodding after that. Despite his headache, Jensen really did want to get involved with the children. He wandered around and talked to the students he knew, and introduced himself to those he didn’t. Time slid away like it always did when he was working in the school and before he realized it, Imogen was hugging his waist.  
   
“Hey, monkey,” he said, returning the hug even though his hands were full of How to Train Your Dragon books. “Did you find your books?”  
   
“We just got here,” she said, already looking around at the brightly colored displays. She spotted Jared across the room and waved happily at him. “I’m going to look around. I saw a Junie B. Jones book I haven’t read yet. Maybe I’ll get that instead of the Mad Libs.”  
   
She was off before he could tell her that he’d already squirreled a copy of the Junie B. Jones behind the counter with Jared. He smiled after her, glad that he knew his daughter so well.  
   
“You look like you’re feeling better.”  
   
Jensen whirled around and came face to face with Misha, who stood a respectable distance away. His face flushed in embarrassment, for he was positive that he’d made an ass out of himself in front of the teacher the night before.  
   
“Hey, Misha.”  
   
“Don’t worry,” Misha smiled kindly. “I’m not going to talk about last night; not here anyway. Except to say I want to try again, without Chad or the whiskey.”  
   
“Chad!” Jensen snapped his fingers; glad to have a name for the faceless blond that blew him the night before. He flushed as soon as he realized Misha stood watching him with forced amusement. “I mean, um. Look, I’m sorry for whatever I might have said. Or, you know, done.”  
   
“You don’t remember,” Misha said. It wasn’t a question.  
   
“Mr. Ackles,” Imogen’s friend, Madison, tugged on his sleeve, saving him from further humiliating himself. “Imogen said she is going to meet Justin Bieber. Is that true?”  
   
As he worked to temper the little girl’s excitement, Misha disappeared into the crowd. Jensen had never been so thankful for a rabid Bieber fan in his life. He led Madison through the sea of kids to meet Jared, who Madison swore was her favorite—after The Biebs, of course.  
   
“Misha said you don’t remember anything,” Jared said, in a low voice that didn’t carry to the students queued up to pay for their books.  
   
“Really, Jay?” Jensen said in exasperation. “You want to talk about this now?”  
   
“Nah, nothing to talk about,” Jared said with a brilliant smile at the pretty little girl in front of them. She blushed a hideous shade of violet and stumbled away, her Charlie Bones book clutched to her chest. “Or least, there must not be. Dude, you were all over that man, so if you don’t remember it, then yeah, I’d say there’s probably nothing to talk about.”  
   
“Oh god,” Jensen groaned. He  _didn’t_  remember, not really, but that was par for the course for him when it came to heavy drinking. He’d managed to resist Misha for so long—only to blow it in a night of extreme stupidity. “Wait. You… saw? How did you…?”  
   
“Misha drove you home,” Jared said with a shake of his head. “You nearly destroyed the ficus when you tackled him.”  
   
“God,” Jensen whispered and fell into a plastic chair beside Jared. “I do remember something about the ficus.”  
   
“Oh hey,” Jared said as if he just remembered something important. Jensen rolled his eyes, because he knew his ex like he knew himself. That  _oh hey_  meant that Jared was about to tell him something that could potentially lead to a fight. Jensen braced for impact. “Genevieve and Tyson will be here tomorrow.”  
   
“Fantastic,” Jensen groaned and slid his right hand into place, covering his mouth and lower jaw. Just what he needed; the bitch that thought Imogen was disposable. He fought the urge to punch the ever-loving shit out of Jared—Seattle Waldorf had a zero tolerance for violence.  
   
“We’re going to stay at the Alexis,” Jared continued as he handed a teenage boy his change and an autograph. “I thought maybe I could take Imogen with me for the weekend; let her hang out with Tyson on neutral ground or something.”  
   
“What happened to her coming next week?”  
   
“I’m not sure,” Jared admitted and when Jensen looked at him, he could tell Jared was tired. “She texted me a couple of hours ago to let me know.”  
   
“I need to talk to Misha,” Jensen said without meaning to do so. He felt his cheeks heat up under Jared’s stare. “To apologize.”  
   
“Right,” Jared shrugged and leaned his hip against the counter. The tide of children was ebbing as the lunch hour neared. “He is crazy hot. I don’t blame you for trying again. Hell, I went for it.”  
   
“You what?” Jensen froze from his shoulders to the very tips of his toes, shod as they were in soft Italian leather. It was there, the bottom, waiting to drop out from under him. If Misha had—if Jared had… he couldn’t even finish the thought.  
   
“You know,” Jared said and tilted his head and simultaneously lifted his eyebrows. “You were passed out and he was there, apologizing for kissing you, saying he just did it to get you inside. I figured he wasn’t interested in you.”  
   
“But Genevieve,” Jensen said, his stomach clenching ominously.  
   
“Yeah, well,” the younger man shrugged and chuckled. “He shot me down, so no worries.”  
   
Jensen was appalled. He’d never been confronted by Jared’s cheating so directly, so cavalierly. Was that how it’d always been? Jared reaching out to take what he wanted, regardless of his relationship status? He didn’t envy Genevieve… not anymore.  
   
“Good on you for getting back in there,” Jared continued with a punch to Jensen’s shoulder. “If someone sympathy kissed me, though, I’d probably just let it go.”  
   
He hadn’t expected Jared to blatantly lie to him, not about Misha at least. He had no vested interest in Misha, hell; he had no vested interest in  _Jensen_. He nodded because Jared was expecting some sort of response to his cruelly aimed words.  
   
“You’re right,” Jensen jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the exit. Had Misha not sought him out so quickly, Jensen would have believed Jared’s version of events. “I just… need a few minutes. You got this under control?”  
   
“Yeah, I’m good,” Jared pressed his lips into a thin line and creased his brow. “Take all the time you need, man. That guy’s a dick. I’m here if you want to talk it out.”  
   
Jensen backed away, carefully schooling his features into feigned disappointment. Actually, it wasn’t feigned at all. He was well and truly disappointed that Jared had let him down yet again. He’d thought they’d be able to salvage some sort of friend-based relationship, but the fact that he was willing to continue to deliberately hurt him was proof enough for Jensen that that would not be the case.  
   
He walked slowly from the library, taking a left toward the lobby instead of the right that would take him to Misha’s classroom. If he went out the front door of the school and skirted the side of the building, he could enter the building again near the gym and double back to Misha without being seen.  
   
As he walked along the sidewalk, wrapping his arms in front of his chest against the crisp Seattle air, he rolled Jared’s words around his head. He gathered his ex had propositioned Misha, and Misha had turned him down. He was surprised Misha hadn’t mentioned that pertinent fact to him—although not really. He could believe that Misha would not wield his knowledge as a weapon against him.  
   
Jensen blinked against the realization that someone cared about  _him_  enough to 1) turn down sex with Jared Padalecki and 2) not want to hurt him.  
   
In less time than he could make sense of, he found himself hovering outside of his daughter’s classroom, cautiously peering in between the plastic beads of the curtain in the doorway. Imogen’s tiny feet dangled from her chair, her heel knocking rhythmically against her chair, sending bursts of red lights skittering around the room. The other students didn’t seem to notice; perhaps they’d grown accustomed to her fidgeting.  
   
Misha stood next to the Promethean board, coaching a student through a complex sequencing exercise. He was crouched down to the boy’s level, both hands on his knees, as he explained why the quarter followed the nickel  _and then_  the penny. His smile had crinkled the edges of his eyes, and it took Jensen’s breath away. As he straightened to allow the boy to try again, he caught sight of Jensen.  
   
“Go ahead, Dillon,” he said with a reassuring pat on the boy’s shoulder. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take out your spelling books and review the list for the test on Friday. I am stepping into the hallway and I want you all to be as quiet as Lux and Bonnie, okay? Blaine, I’m leaving you in charge.”  
   
Jensen stepped away from the doorway, wanting to avoid the watchful eyes of the class. He was not a stranger to the room, but his arrival always caused a small wave as the students updated him on their recent accomplishments.  
   
“Is everything okay?” Misha asked as soon as he was out of the room.  
   
“Why did you leave Blaine in charge?” Jensen asked, letting his nerves get the better of him. “He’s a troublemaker.”  
   
“Did you disrupt my class to question my decision-making abilities?” Misha asked with a shake of his head. Jensen took in his serious look—made more severe by his buttoned waistcoat, pinstriped pants and fiery red pocket square—and swallowed his nerves. “Come on, Jensen, just say it.”  
   
It was too late to back out, but damn, Jensen wished he’d taken a moment to come up with some intelligible words before he’d burst into Misha’s classroom. Yeah, he seriously wished that were the case.  
   
“I, uh.”  
   
“Well, that’s a start,” Misha taunted him. Jensen had never realized how cold those blue eyes could get. “Could we hurry this along so I can return to my class?”  
   
“Just shut up and give me a minute,” Jensen reached up to cover his mouth, but changed his mind. He was done nursing his pain. “I’m sorry I don’t remember last night.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Misha sighed and shifted as if he intended to return to his classroom. “Look, I need to—”  
   
“I said give me a minute,” Jensen said and reached out to grab Misha’s arm. With one firm yank, Misha was tethered to Jensn’s chest. Highly inappropriate, but for just a moment, Misha allowed it. “I  _want_ to remember, you idiot. Next time. Next time, I want to remember.”  
   
Misha blinked at him, his head tilted slightly back to make up for the scant inches that separated them in height. Jensen stayed still, letting the other man look his fill. He watched in fascination as the blue of Misha’s eyes thawed out and turned warm and sparkling once again. And  _Jesusgod_ , had he really used the word  _sparkling_ to describe Misha’s eyes?  
   
“I want you to remember, too,” Misha said in not much more than a whisper.  
   
“Slowly,” Jensen said with a significant glance toward the classroom where the noise level was steadily increasing, despite Blaine’s supervision. “We’ll start with dinner tonight.”  
   
“Don’t stand me up again,” Misha commanded.  
   
“I won’t. And… about Imogen,” he said and his forehead crinkled out of habit. “We’re a joint package, but I need to know where this is going before I let her in. We have to be discreet.”  
   
“Mum’s the word,” Misha said, finally letting his lips to curve into a smile. “I’ve got to get back in there. Blaine was an awful choice, wasn’t he?”  
   
“Wait, one more thing,” Jensen said with an apologetic bend of his head. “I know what Jared did. And that you said no.”  
   
Misha nodded, the smile slipping from his face so quickly that Jensen wanted to use the tips of his fingers to drag it back into place.  
   
“I would never,” Misha said, his voice deeper than normal. He sounded like he’d burned his throat with ash from a barrel fire.  
   
“Thank you.  _Thank_  you,” Jensen said, increasing the pressure of his fingers around the other man’s arm. They didn’t speak for the space of several heartbeats as the sincerity of Jensen’s words wrapped around them.  
   
“So you mentioned dinner?” Misha asked, finally breaking the silent spell. He moved away from Jensen, but so slowly that Jensen understood the reluctance.  
   
“Yeah,” he grinned. “How about something in your neck of the woods?”  
   
“It’s so cute,” Misha said, stepping close enough to whisper in Jensen’s ear. Jensen shivered and tilted his head closer to the rush of air tickling him. “That you say things like ‘in your neck of the woods’. Yeehaw, Cowboy.”  
   
Jensen sputtered out a laugh and pushed Misha away. “Get back in there and teach my kid something useful,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at six.”  
   
He watched as Misha pushed the beads aside and entered his classroom with, unless Jensen was much mistaken, a little skip to his step. Misha clapped his hands together and praised the class for their attempt at silence, which was, he told the class with a wink, one of the hardest direction they’ll ever try to follow.  
   
Yeah, Jensen thought as he headed back to the library and Jared, silence was difficult to maintain. He wondered how long it would take before he could no longer swallow down the angry words threatening to break through his teeth to get at Jared. If he were a betting man, he decided, he wouldn’t bet against the house on that one.


	4. Chapter 4

**~~Misha~~**  
   
Misha dunked a piece of bread into the chocolate fondue pot in the middle of the table and chewed while he listened to his date rattle on and on about the manuscript he was writing. Jensen’s light green eyes were bright and his cheeks were rounded out from a broad smile. Misha was one hundred percent sure that he could listen with rapt attention for hours, but Jensen coughed into his hand and blushed.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he said as he smoothed his green napkin in his lap. “I tend to go on when I talk about my projects.”  
   
“I had no idea you write,” Misha said, purposefully not accepting his apology. The only thing he wanted was to hear more—more of anything Jensen wanted to say—except, of course, apologies. “Have you ever tried to have them published?”  
   
“Oh,” Jensen flushed and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I have six books on the market right now. It’s a series, but what I was telling you about, with the fairies, that’ll be a new series, if my publisher likes it.”  
   
“Really?” Misha leaned back in his chair, shocked, which wasn’t an easy thing to do. “What’s the series?”  
   
“I doubt you’ve heard of it,” Jensen prevaricated with a shrug. “It isn’t a huge seller.”  
   
“Even still, tell me.”  
   
“It’s called  _The Piper Peck Chronicles_ ,” Jensen said with a hefty exhale. “It’s for kids. Girls, really.”  
   
I know  _Piper Peck_!” Misha lunged forward with a huge grin. He laughed and gripped the table to keep his enthusiasm contained. “I read  _Piper and the Peckish Papers_  to my class last year. But… wait…  _you’re_  Jenny Merriweather?”  
   
“Oh god,” Jensen laughed and hid his face with his hands. “How embarrassing.”  
   
Misha really did try to prevent his laughter from erupting, but he was so amused that there was no hope for it. He was at dinner with the very manly Jenny Merriweather, author of his favorite children’s series, about a precocious twelve-year-old girl with a penchant for solving neighborhood mysteries.  
   
“I never should have told you,” Jensen groaned.  
   
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier,” Misha said after he’d recovered use of his faculties. “You are a famous author!”  
   
“Hardly,” he disagreed. “No one knows what I do except my family and now you. Besides, they’ve never been best sellers.”  
   
“Why did you write them?” Misha asked, more curious than ever by the man across from him. “If you weren’t comfortable using your own name?”  
   
“They started out as stories for Imogen,” Jensen explained, smiling at some memory that clouded his eyes briefly. “I would tell her a little bit every night. Jared told me to write them down so she could have them when she was older, so I did.”  
   
“So they are your first attempts at writing?”  
   
“Nah,” Jensen laughed and dipped a piece of bread into the chocolate. “I have an MFA from UCLA.”  
   
“You…” Misha scrunched his features together in confusion. He suddenly felt as if he had only just met Jensen for the first damn time. He had mistakenly assumed he knew everything he needed to know about the beautiful man who rocked his world with his damn lips at that bar in September. If there was one thing he hated, it was being wrong.  
   
“I guess I got a little wrapped up in Jared’s career,” Jensen said into the silence. “He started getting more and more scripts to read, so I helped out. And then Immy came. There just wasn’t time for me to pursue writing until Jared told me to write down Piper.”  
   
Misha’s mouth felt tired as he curved his lips into a smile. It was a good kind of tired; the kind he got after running in the evenings. Jensen was a  _good_  man; ambitious enough to earn an MFA, but caring enough to put his dreams on hold to support those he loved.  
   
“What?” Jensen asked, shifting uncomfortably under Misha’s intense scrutiny.  
   
“You’re amazing,” was Misha’s honest answer as he tucked several bills into the little black payment folder. He stood up from the table and held his hand out to Jensen. “Let’s go.”  
   
Jensen took his hand without hesitation or embarrassment. He didn’t say anything as they wound their way through the crowd and out to the Range Rover. Jensen opened the passenger door and Misha slid into the seat, but he held out his arm to prevent the door from closing. He twisted so he faced Jensen, with his feet skimming the ground.  
   
“Come here,” Misha said and Jensen stepped forward to fulfill the request. The partially closed door with its darkly tinted window hid them from view. It would have to do, as Misha did not want to wait a second longer to kiss Jensen for the first time. Well, the first time they’d both remember in the morning. “I’m going to kiss you.”  
   
“Then stop talking about it,” Jensen said, taking another step that put him firmly between Misha’s legs. “And do it.”  
   
Misha laughed, the sound rolling around his chest like a purr. Jensen smiled and reached for his date. The first touch of lips made Misha’s eyebrows rise. There was a softness that had been missing the night before. There was no desperation, no rushing. Their mouths opened together and shared a breath. It was delicious.  
   
“Come home with me,” Misha murmured in between kisses that vacillated between sweet and filthy.  
   
“No,” Jensen groaned, swore and pulled away. He pushed Misha back in his seat and ran a hand over his face. “No, not tonight, not yet.”  
   
“Right,” Misha let his head hit the headrest. “Slowly.”  
   
“You still interested?” Jensen asked as he looked down to toy with his keys. Misha had to smile at the sheepish stilt of his voice. He was so freaking cute when he tried to be all aloof and unaffected.  
   
“Slow is good,” Misha said around his smile. He touched his fingers under Jensen’s chin in order to pull his face up. “I can work with slow.”  
   
**  
   
 **~~Jensen~~**  
  
Six dates with Misha had Jensen seriously reconsidering his decision to keep his clothes on. The man could sell shoes to a snake with that slick voice and those pretty words of his, but for Jensen, it was the way Misha touched him when they kissed. His long fingers were sure and strong against Jensen’s waist, or gentle and tentative as they brushed his face. There was coiled and ready passion, lurking just beneath the surface, and the fact that he held it back because Jensen asked him to was heady. But honestly? Jensen wanted Misha’s restraint to snap.  
   
With a sigh, he put his key in his front door, ready to retreat to his bed for some serious thought about Misha naked, but before he made the effort to turn it, Jared pulled it open.  
   
“There you are,” Jared said as Jensen freed his key. “We’ve been waiting for you. Didn’t you get my text?”  
   
“Your text?” Jensen felt around his pocket for his phone, but it wasn’t there. “Shit. I must’ve left my phone at—” He clamped Misha’s name down, refusing to share it with Jared. “What are you doing here? I thought you had Immy at the hotel with you tonight.”  
   
“She wanted to come home,” Jared shrugged and followed Jensen into the living room where Genevieve sat curled in a chair with Tyson nursing at her breast. “She’s in bed. While we’re here, we wanted to talk to you about Christmas.”  
   
“What about it?” Jensen asked, careful to keep his eyes firmly averted as Jared sat on the arm of Genevieve’s chair.  
   
“We want to take Im back to Texas with us.”  
   
Jensen blinked slowly. The Christmas Festival, just two days away, signaled the start of Seattle Waldorf’s Winter Break—three full weeks without classes or PTA meetings. Jensen had been looking forward to curling up in front of the fire and introducing Imogen to the fantastical world of Narnia. He had bought the box set, thinking she would get so involved in the story that he would read himself hoarse during the hiatus. He thought they’d finish up by going to check out the latest movie in the series at the mall… maybe with Misha in tow.  
   
He hadn’t accounted for Jared wanting to abscond to his parents’ for a traditional Padalecki Christmas. Of course Jared wanted to go home for Christmas; their family had made that same trip every single year of their relationship. It had always been Thanksgiving at the Ackles house and Christmas with the Padaleckis. It made sense for Jared to go to his family to show off his new son. But Imogen, too? With Genevieve?  
   
“I don’t know,” Jensen started, his lips pulling down into a frown that was sure to give him wrinkles. “She might not be comfortable with that.”  
   
“She loves my parents,” Jared said at once. He threaded his fingers together—Jensen noticed their wedding ring was still there—and hunched forward, bringing him closer to Jensen. “They’re her grandparents and they want to see her.”  
   
“It’s not them,” Jensen said, jabbing a finger toward Genevieve, who was looking intently at Tyson, her cheeks flushed pink. Maintaining his daughter’s comfort had a tendency to make him brutally honest and frank. “It’s  _her_.”  
   
“She has to move beyond that,” Jared snapped. “She only hates Gen because she thinks  _you_  do.”  
   
“Yeah, well.”  
   
“Jensen,” Jared said, and it was a warning, but he was no longer bound to Jared so it did little more than ruffle his feathers.  
   
“It might not be very Christian of me,” Jensen said and he had to work hard to keep his voice level so it would not travel up the stairs. “But I’m not quite to the forgive and forget stage yet. I will play the happy fucking family when Immy is around, but not right now. Right now, I can feel what I damn well please.”  
   
“No you can’t,” Jared jumped up and moved into his ex’s personal space. “She is the mother of my child. You need to show her a little more respect.”  
   
“The fuck I do—”  
   
“Enough,” Genevieve said as she got to her feet. Both men looked at her, waiting as she settled Tyson—who Jensen could admit was cute as hell—into his carrier to sleep. “This has to stop. Jensen, I’m  _sorry_. I should have quit as soon as I realized I had feelings for Jared. I am sorry I made him love me, but I can’t undo it.”  
   
“You’re apologizing,” Jensen asked with a lifted eyebrow. “For stealing Jared?”  
   
“Yes,” Genevieve sighed and held her hands out as if she was asking for benediction. “I’ll say it outright: I am sorry I stole Jared.”  
   
“Jesus… Christ…” Jensen stepped away from Jared and the encroaching Genevieve. “I don’t care about that. Not anymore.”  
   
“But…” She shot Jared a look, but he was too busy staring at Jensen with wide eyes.  
   
“You have no idea,” Jensen chuckled and shook his head. It wasn’t funny, god damn it wasn’t funny, but he laughed anyway. “I don’t want him. You did me a big fucking favor, lady.”  
   
“Hey,” Jared exclaimed, daring to be offended. He wrapped an arm around his girlfriend and tried to lead her from the room. “Come on, Gen, we don’t have to do this.”  
   
“Yes we do,” she insisted, pushing out of Jared’s hold. Jensen could never say she didn’t have moxie by the truckloads. “If it’s not because I stole Jared, then why do you hate me?”  
   
“You asked Jared to walk away from Imogen,” he said, pouring the disgust he felt into the words, aiming them like darts and taking his shot. “You’re a mother, but you have no problem asking Jared to give up his daughter. How can you come here and pretend to love Immy when your end game is to take her father away?”  
   
“I—” She looked like Jensen had slapped her with a cinder block. Her face exploded into all-over scarlet before draining completely of color. “How did you… Jared… did you…  _tell him_ that?”  
   
“Uh,” Jared said. “Yeah.”  
   
“I should have known,” she said and Jensen took a little pleasure in seeing her deflate. “I only wanted him away from you, Jensen, not from Imogen. It’s always you, Jensen. Don’t you know that?”  
   
“What?” Jensen asked at the same time Jared said: “Gen, stop.”  
   
“He’s always going to love you best,” Genevieve continued, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture that looked like she was cold rather than defensive. Jensen felt a pull of something in his gut, but he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t pity. “No one stands a chance against you. It’s not fair, and I had an idea that was the case, but I hoped I was wrong.”  
   
“That’s not true,” Jared said quickly, standing in the middle of the room, halfway between Genevieve and Jensen. His head swung back and forth between them.  
   
“Then take the ring off,” Genevieve ordered quietly. Jensen’s eyes followed hers to Jared’s left hand. “Take it off right now and put it away for good.”  
   
The clock over the mantle ticked off a handful of seconds. Jensen could see the tension and stress roll up Jared’s spine and pull his shoulders closer to his ears. He knew in those sparse seconds that what Genevieve said was true. Jared wasn’t quite finished with Jensen; that was the reason he’d come to Seattle—and stayed; that was the reason he had hit on Misha; and that was the reason he was still wearing his ever lovin’ wedding ring.  
   
His knees tried to buckle, but Jensen held tightly to his control. It was everything he’d hoped for… a year and a half ago. He’d held on to the hope that Jared would tire of Genevieve and come running home, begging for his forgiveness. He’d written dozens of scenarios in his head, each ending with him and Jared happy again inside their LA home with Imogen between them.  
   
But not anymore. Now, when he envisioned moments in a happy home, Misha was there, telling embellished stories from his youth and folding junk mail into origami pigs. Yeah, it was a little soon to have those sorts of thoughts, but he didn’t try to quash them. No one had to know that he indulged in such a girly fantasy.  
   
“Jared,” he began, girding himself with a deep breath. “Take the ring off. We are done forever. You damn near destroyed me when you left. I will never fully trust you again, so even if I would consider going back, I couldn’t do it. Not to me and sure as hell not to Immy.”  
   
“Jensen,” Jared whispered and it was an anguished plea.  
   
“No,” Jensen said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He did not doubt his feelings or his decision, but he did still love Jared. It was difficult to see him in pain. “I’m set on this, Jare.”  
   
“Is there someone else?”  
   
“Yeah,” Jensen nodded and smiled; he couldn’t help himself. “Yeah there is.”  
   
“Misha?”  
   
Jensen nodded again.  
   
“Yeah,” Jared sighed. “I figured. You’re not very slick with your late-night PTA meetings and hours-long grocery store trips. Is it serious?”  
   
“I think so,” Jensen said, working hard to keep a grin at bay.  
   
“Imogen doesn’t know,” Jared said as he dropped onto the couch. “You haven’t told her.”  
   
“No, of course not,” Jensen sat on the far end of the couch, angling his body toward Jared, but keeping a sizeable distance between them. He saw Genevieve slink back into her chair from the corner of his eye. “I don’t want to do that until I’m sure. She’s been through enough.”  
   
“I really fucked up,” Jared said, rubbing at his eyes. “Didn’t I?”  
   
“Yeah,” Jensen agreed.  
   
They sat together, the three of them, in silence, broken only by Tyson’s gentle whimpering in his sleep. Jensen wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Jared held his left hand out in front of him. Three sets of eyes trained on the silver ring that held so much emotion, memories, and intentions.  
   
“Take it off, Jared,” Jensen said softly. He had taken care of Jared for so long; it was second nature to comfort him, to ease him into and through difficult decision. This was no different than convincing Jared that saying yes to  _Spiderman_  was an excellent career move. “We’re done, and I think you know it.”  
   
“I…” Jared started, his hands opening and closing around nothing but air.  
   
“You don’t want me anymore,” Jensen continued before he could hear whatever Jared wanted to say. It was not open for debate. “You wanted Genevieve and now you have her. Don’t fuck that up because you don’t want me to move on.”  
   
Jared nodded jerkily, and Jensen could see that he’d planted the essential idea. If he sat there long enough, if he used the perfect words, Jensen could have Jared stupidly in love with Genevieve.  
   
“You love Gen,” he said and gestured with his hand for the silently crying girl to come. He swallowed around the nickname, hating himself for facilitating the relationship that had once caused him unremitting pain. He watched as she wrapped herself around Jared’s shoulders, her dark hair sliding over them both, obscuring her face and his rapidly rising and falling chest. “I’ll always be here—as a friend—if you need me, but that’s it. You two are welcome to stay in the guest room. I’m off to bed.”  
   
Jensen got to his feet and walked from the room, leaving the huddled pair on his couch. They could stay or they could go. It didn’t matter to him. He stopped by Imogen’s open door and watched her sleep for a moment. She slept with an intensity that made him smile. Her face was pulled in on itself, as if she were concentrating on a terrifically difficult puzzle. He wanted to smooth her brow with the pad of his thumb, but he knew that was a sure way to wake her, so he rolled away from the doorframe and continued down the hall to his room.  
   
Genevieve and Jared’s muted voices chased him into his bedroom, but he could not make out any of their words. He collapsed onto his bed and listened to the sound of the conversation below. He hadn’t really thought what it meant to reject Jared, if it had really been rejecting him. There had been no declaration, thank God, but the truth of what Genevieve said had been evident on Jared’s face.  
   
He had turned his back on the man he’d loved for so many years. Not too long ago, he would not have been strong enough to do that. He had to consider the possibility that he was simply trying to mask his true feelings in order to save face. And so he did. He thought long and hard, examining every twinge in his gut, every stab behind his eyes.  
   
But he found that he  _was_  sure. He did not want Jared, even if there was no Misha to consider. If anything, he was glad (as he had told Genevieve) to be out. He didn’t want the Hollywood lifestyle, and he didn’t want Jared.  
   
A knock on his open door drew his attention.  
   
“Hey,” Jared said, a grimace stretching his lips wide. “I’m sorry. About all that.”  
   
“It’s okay,” Jensen said. “Did you guys get everything worked out?”  
   
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall just inside the door. “Well, mostly. She’s upset, but says she understands. You were my first love, man. It’s not… I mean, that’s intense. I guess I just freaked out.”  
   
“Yeah you did,” Jensen agreed with a short laugh. He pushed himself into a sitting position. “And I get it. Your first love is always a part of you, but there’s no going back, Jared.”  
   
“I know,” Jared shifted against the wall and glanced over his shoulder, out into the hallway. “We’re going to go ahead and stay here tonight. We don’t want to take Tyson back out. It’s freezing balls out there.”  
   
Jensen laughed at the crass weather update. “Cool,” he said. “You know where everything is.”  
   
“Good night, Jen,” Jared said as he pushed away from the wall. “See you in the morning.”  
   
And for once—just the once—Jensen didn’t correct his ex. Jared was his first love, too, so there was a part of him that would always love him, cater to him. They would be entangled for the rest of their lives, thanks to their much beloved daughter, but from that point forward, there would be boundaries—clear and understood boundaries.  
   
**  
   
 **~~Misha~~**  
   
“You look ridiculous,” Jensen told Misha as he helped him secure a spongy red nose to his face. “We could have done this without a clown.”  
   
“I enjoy it,” Misha assured him. His face had been painted white with a garish red smile and purple eye shadow. His pants were Harlequin print and his shirt bright yellow. “Do you think the hat is too much?”  
   
“Mish,” Jensen laughed and tugged at his red suspenders, bringing them closer together, which was such a good thing these days. “I don’t think there’s such a thing now that you’ve gone all in with the bowtie and the floppy shoes. How in the hell did you get so adorable?”  
   
“It’s a burden,” Misha said with a grin. He reached out and touched Jensen’s ear and pulled back with a quarter in his hand. “Ta-da.”  
   
“Adorable,” Jensen grabbed Misha’s hand and kissed the back, which should have been too hokey for Misha to bear, but really, it made him grin like a loon. He was mad about Jensen’s unconscious little tics and countrified sayings. “But ridiculous.”  
   
“Daddy, come  _on_ ,” Imogen squealed as she bounded into the room, her hair caught up in two bouncing pig tails. Fuckity fuck. “Madison and Dillon are already bobbing for apples.”  
   
Jensen jerked away so quickly that Misha stumbled. He righted himself quickly enough and waved at Imogen.  
   
“Were you kissing?” Imogen asked with one raised eyebrow. She reminded Misha of Jensen when she did that and that was just weird as shit.  
   
“What?” Jensen yelped. “No!”  
   
“Oh,” she twirled her hair around her finger and sucked in her lower lip. “Well, come on then. Papa and Gen are here.”  
   
Misha watched Jensen’s face turn an unattractive shade of pale green; sea foam, he thought. They’d been so careful to keep their relationship on the DL, always mindful of Imogen. Only two days ago had Jensen caved and told Jared. He had expected that conversation to leave Jensen tetchy, but the exact opposite was true. The man was more affectionate and more open, but until Imogen knew, there was a wall between them.  
   
“Why would she think that?” Jensen asked as soon as Imogen disappeared from the room. The sea foam was retreating into a sheen of white with freckle-shaped polka dots. “Do you think Jared told her? I’ll kill him.”  
   
“Let’s go find out,” Misha said and wished he wasn’t dressed up like Blipo the freakin’ clown. “It will be okay, no matter what, okay?”  
   
“I wanted to tell her,” Jensen said as they started out of the room, a respectable distance between them. “I was going to tell her before Christmas, but now she’s going to Texas with Jared and Gen. I don’t want to tell her and then ship her off for two weeks, you know?”  
   
“You want to tell her?” He stopped in the hall and waved on a group of upper classmen. “That’s… wow. Are you sure?”  
   
“I am,” Jensen smiled at him, and he was pretty sure that if they weren’t in the hallway of the school, there would be a kiss or at least a hand squeeze. “I want her to know you as Misha, not just as Mr. Collins. And I want her to see me happy.”  
   
“Oh yeah?” His upper body bent toward Jensen as if he were a sunflower in the early morning sunrise. “I make you happy?”  
   
“Hell yeah you do,” Jensen took a step closer, stopping just short of touching Misha in any way. He leaned down, positioned his lips close to Misha’s ear, and said: “And tonight, I want to make  _you_  happy.”  
   
“Oh my god,” Misha gulped, hoping to God and Vishnu and Buddha too that he was not misinterpreting Jensen’s meaning. “Tonight—?”  
   
“There you guys are,” Jared called from the end of the hall, a baby cradled against one shoulder. “Imogen said you were dawdling. Hurry up; If the clown doesn’t make an appearance soon, there may be bloodshed. Mrs. Dodd’s voice has reached octaves so high that I’m sure only dogs can hear her—what a godsend.”  
   
“Sorry for the delay,” Misha said, smoothly stepping away from Jensen, who had not bothered to take distance on his own. “A slight balloon emergency, but we’re good now.”  
   
As he approached Jared, he spied a small woman standing slightly behind him. Ah, Misha thought, the home wrecking whore.  
   
“You must be Ms. Cortese,” Misha extended his hand and gave her his best professional (read: aloof) smile. “I’ve heard many things about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”  
   
“Please call me Gen,” she said in a voice that tried so hard not to waver. Poor little thing. She looked as sheepish as a lamb to slaughter. Of course, Misha had always loved lamb chops. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mr. Collins. Immy has raved about you.”  
   
“Imogen is a bright and lovely girl,” Misha said, deliberately not extending the invitation of familiarity to her. “It is a delight to have her in my class. Shall we see what pleasures await us in the gymnasium?”  
   
“I love the outfit,” Genevieve said, gesturing to Misha’s person and sonuvabitch Misha had forgotten that he was dressed like a Ringling Brothers’ reject. Well, Round One to the whore. “It’s cool that you’re willing to make a fool of yourself in front of your students.”  
   
“Yes, well,” Misha straightened his bowtie and inclined his head. “As Shakespeare once said: ‘A fool thinks himself wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ So, there’s that.”  
   
Jensen’s chuckle drew Misha’s aural attention, but he kept his eyes on Genevieve to see how she would interpret the Bard’s words. Ha. Round Two to the fool.  
   
“It’s okay, Mish,” Jensen pressed the flat of his hand to Misha’s back and bent close to his ear again. “We’ve made our peace. You can call off the attack.”  
   
Jared laughed and hauled Gen against his side. Her face squished into chest as he hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head.  
   
“I was looking forward to Round Three,” Jared said, grinning broadly. “I think the two of you are going to be bosom buddies in no time.”  
   
“Did you just say bosom buddies?” Jensen asked, which was an excellent question as far as Misha was concerned. “You’re such a dork.”  
   
“Shut it, Ackles,” Jared laughed and turned their little group toward the gymnasium doors. “Let’s go get our Festival on.”  
   
   
**  
   
“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Vicki asked after the first wave of students left clutching Misha Collins Original Balloon Animal Works of Arts. “Jensen is paling around with the Cheating Ex and the Baby Mama? And you, too? I saw you come in with them.”  
   
“There have been some great strides made in peacemaking recently,” Misha said, although he had yet to hear all of the details of that historic event.  
   
“What does that mean?”  
   
“That I don’t have to actively revile Gen—that’s the home wrecking whore’s name—anymore,” he said as he restocked the blue balloons on the makeshift table to his right. “Which is good because, seriously, hating someone is hard work, and you know how I feel about hard work.”  
   
Vicki snorted and wiped the brushes they were using for face painting on a clean paper towel.  
   
“I think tonight is the night with Jensen,” he said, trying to keep the heat out of his cheeks—and his pants.  
   
“Oh my god,” Vicki laughed so hard she had to put down her brushes. “That was so  _Sixteen Candles_  or some shit.”  
   
“Fuck you,” Misha said, but he had to admit to the lameness of his declaration. “Also, I think that’s actually a quote from  _Dirty Dancing_.”  
   
“In all seriousness,” Vicki said, her face morphing with startling ease into her Serious Look. “I’m thrilled for you. You’ve managed to keep it in your pants for over three months. That’s impressive.”  
   
“I’m afraid I’m going to come before he gets his lips on my—hi there, kids!” Misha smiled broadly and turned on his clown charm. Imogen was amongst the group looking up at him with grins of anticipation. “What creation will you have from the Majestic Blipo?”  
   
“Hey, Blipo,” Vicki whispered behind a cupped hand at his ear. “Just whip yourself up a cock ring out of your little balloons and you’ll be fine.”  
   
Misha let go of the balloon he had just blown up. It soared into the air, completing two whirligigs before falling at his feet. The students laughed uproariously and cheered for him to do it again.  
   
From across the room, he caught sight of Jensen standing in a semi-circle of parents, watching their children enjoy the Festival. Their eyes met over the crowd and Jensen winked.  
   
And yep, Misha let go of another damn balloon.  
   
**  
   
 **~~Imogen, Age 16~~**  
  
  
“Dads,” Imogen called from her bedroom. She was seriously starting to freak the fudge out. It was her sixteenth birthday and she didn’t have a darn thing to wear to her party. “Daddy!”  
   
“What’s wrong?” Jensen skidded into the room, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”  
   
“Jeez, no,” she rolled her eyes and flung herself on her bed, right on top of the huge pile of clothes that  _no one_  would be caught dead wearing, especially not to their Sweet Sixteen party. “I don’t have anything to wear! How am I supposed to go to my very own party wearing these gross old things?”  
   
“Why don’t you see what Gen sent?” Jensen asked, grinning down at her like a cat that ate the canary. “You normally like what she sends.”  
   
“Gen sent a package?” Imogen leapt from the bed and ran from the room, yelling over her shoulder. “Is it by the door? I can’t believe I didn’t see it!”  
   
She could hear her father laughing as she snatched up the sizeable box and darted back to her room. He already had the scissors in his hands by time she plopped on the floor. He crouched next to her, ready to ooh and ahh as appropriate.  
   
“Hey guys,” Misha rounded the corner, his hair wet and dripping onto his white undershirt. Her dads were so gross. “Did I hear the shriek indicative of a clothing parcel from Gen?”  
   
“We haven’t opened it yet,” Jensen said, holding out his hand to Misha. “You’re just in time.”  
   
Imogen slit the packing tape and hastily handed the scissors off to Misha. She pulled piece after piece out, stopping to rub the soft fabrics between her fingers and hold them out for Jensen and Misha’s approval.  
   
“I like that one best,” Jensen said an hour later, because he was the most awesome of all of her dads when it came to clothes. He would sit and let her try on clothes  _forever_ , giving his opinion and letting her, like, try stuff on a second and third time if she wasn’t sure. “You’ve always looked gorgeous in dark blue.”  
   
“I agree,” Misha said as he rummaged through her jewelry box for the perfect accessories. “Hm. Jen, I don’t think anything in here is going to work.”  
   
“No?” Jensen leaned back and glanced in the open box. His eyes wrinkled at the edges, which reminded Imogen just how  _old_  he was. “Ah, crap, you’re right.”  
   
“What!” Imogen cried, hurrying over to inspect the situation herself. She was sure she had a pair of faux sapphire earrings that would be perfect with the dress.  
   
“How about these?” Misha asked her dad, but she couldn’t see what he was holding.  
   
“Those are perfect,” Jensen said emphatically. “It’s like they were made for her.”  
   
“What are perfect?” Imogen asked, dancing on her tiptoes to see what the heck they were talking about anyway.  
   
“Happy birthday, monkey,” Jensen said, closing the box and handing over a dark red jewelry box.  
   
Imogen jumped up and down before she ever opened the box. She’d known for a long time that it was a tradition in the Collins family to give a girl turning sixteen her first piece of real jewelry. She hadn’t expected to receive it until her party, but if it was something that would match the dress, she guessed they wanted her to wear them right away.  
   
The box opened and there sat a beautiful necklace with matching earrings. The necklace was made up of dozens of leaf shaped jewels, each surrounded by glittering diamonds that caught the light and shone brightly in her eyes. At the bottom of the necklace—dipping down to an apex that would settle low on her neck—was collection of three leaves surrounding one diamond.  
   
“Dads,” she breathed, picking the necklace up to finger, much like she’d done the fabric in Gen’s care package. “It’s gorgeous. There’s one leaf for each of you.”  
   
“And a diamond for you,” Misha said.  
   
“I love it,” Imogen croaked, clutching the necklace to her chest. “I can’t wait to wear it.”  
   
“Gen made that dress especially to match,” Jensen added with a satisfied smile. “Jared has the other part of your present.”  
   
Her other- _other_  dad was the one to generally spoil her relentlessly, no matter what the other two said. It was fun to watch them fight about it because in the end, her other- _other_  dad always got his way, which meant Imogen got her way. Yeah, she loved having three dads—and an awesome stepmom.  
   
“Honey, I’m hoooome,” Jared’s voice boomed from the foyer, followed by thunderous footsteps on the stairs.  
   
“Im?”  
   
“Tyson!” Imogen thrust the necklace into Jensen’s waiting hands and she ran off to tackle her baby brother. She didn’t like to admit it, but she missed the little jerk. He always tagged along with her friends when he came to visit, but whatever. She was happy to see him even if he was a butthead.  
   
“Happy birthday!” Tyson shouted and pulled the top on a little can of compressed confetti.  
   
“Oh no,” Jensen groaned because of all her dads,  _he_  was the one who liked things just so.  
   
“Oooh,” Misha laughed, holding his arms up and dancing into the messy cloud of drifting papers. “Look, Jen, confetti; it’s a parade!”  
   
Imogen and Tyson let Misha take their hands and twirl them around in a highly uncool way. She would never tell her friends about this moment. Her friends thought her dads were cool; she couldn’t let them down by telling how truly dorky they really were. Dancing in the hallway? Shah.  
   
“Tyson,” Jared groaned as he joined the impromptu party. “I thought I told you no. Look at this mess.”  
   
“Dad!” Imogen took a flying leap into her strongest dad’s arms. He didn’t so much as grunt as he caught her and hefted her high above his head. She squealed like a little girl even though she  _so_  wasn’t. “Where’s my present?”  
   
“You greedy little thing,” Jared teased as he set her back on her feet. Little pieces of confetti landed in his hair and she thought that he looked very much like that last scene in  _Spiderman 5_ , where he had saved Mary Jane  _again_  and there had been a huge celebration in the streets.  
   
“Not greedy,” she corrected him. “Just impatient. The Other Dads already gave me theirs. And Gen sent hers by mail. It’s all down to you, Pops. Give up the goods.”  
   
“All right, you little monkey, here,” Jared reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a big red ribbon tied to the ring. “Happy birthday.”  
   
“No fudgin’ way,” Imogen gaped at the keys she held. “A  _car_? Dads… I can keep it, right?”  
   
Jensen and Misha laughed, which was totally unfair because a car was  _way_  spoil-y.  
   
“Of course you can,” Jensen finally said, after a brief shoving match with Jared. “Go out there and see if you like it.”  
   
Imogen flew down the stairs with Tyson at her heels. She heard her dads exchanging greetings, slaps on the back and hugs. They would come outside, all of them together, as soon as they got their lovey-dovey how-ya-doin’-mans out of the way.  
   
Outside, beside an adorable little green convertible—Imogen couldn’t tell, or care, what the make and model was—stood Gen. It was Gen who got her tears of happiness as they hugged hello. She saved them all for her stepmom, because while her dads were  _awesome_ , it was better to cry with a mom. They always wanted to get her to  _stop_  crying, even if she was happy. Gen understood that sometimes tears were the perfect thing.  
   
Later that night, Imogen would put on her fancy new dress and a pair of strappy high heels and pretend to be grown up. She’d show off her new car and her amazing jewelry. She’d dance with her dads as if it was a chore.  
   
But for now, for a few more hours, she would be her Daddys’ little girl. All three of them.  
 

 THE END


End file.
